


74

by jarsen21



Series: The Hunger Games (Peeta) [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, POV Peeta Mellark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 03:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 86,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18864700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarsen21/pseuds/jarsen21
Summary: “Nothing has changed”, my father says.  “There are two givens in this world, son.  There will always be poverty, and there will always be the Hunger Games.  The trick is to not let them change you.”--“But more excitement is to come!  It’s time to choose our boy tribute!”Her hand hovers over the boys reaping ball in a similar fashion with the girls.  It annoys me.  That same anxiety from the crowd is all that she prolongs.Five out of a countless number of those pieces say Peeta Mellark.  I try to relax myself as I remind myself that the odds are indeed in my favor.  It doesn’t help.  My heart rate is out of control as it is every other reaping.  There is no way it will be me, I think to myself.  Two more times after today.“Peeta Mellark.”





	1. Chapter 1

I hear the knock on our back door. I can tell it is the back by the signature rattling of the hinges. My parents avoid repairs unless it is absolutely necessary. 

My father is in front of the large ovens on the other side of the house. I doubt he could hear the clatter over the hopes of a morning rush in the bakery. “Let him in.” Apparently, in his age, he still can hear perfectly well. My father lived here, in the bakery, all his life. He still tells stories of when he was younger. “Nothing has changed”, he says. “There are two givens in this world, son. There will always be poverty, and there will always be the Hunger Games. The trick is to not let them change you.”

I make my way through the potent smell of freshly baked goods that never seems to leave this place. Just as the knocking recommences, I swing open the door to see the familiar face of Gale Hawthorne. “Good morning, Peeta”, he greets as he readjusts his bag on his shoulder. I can only guess what is inside; squirrel, rabbit, my mouth waters thinking of possible trades my father may make with him. “Good morning, Gale. Let me call the Baker.” 

I usually refer to him as the Baker around others. My father has been around for so long now, everyone addresses him as such. I bet they forgot his name entirely so they have to call him by his profession. 

My father usually trades baked goods for squirrel and rabbit. It is always good news to see Gale around the bakery. It means there will be something other than stale or moldy bread to eat. 

Squirrel is a bit of an acquired taste, however. I grew up on the stuff; I never turn it down when my father offers me a leg. 

The only downside is, here, in District Twelve, poaching is highly illegal. The offense includes small game like squirrel, but that never stops anyone. The Peacekeepers here don’t mind really. In fact, the Peacekeepers are some of Gale’s best customers. 

“How are you this morning, Gale?” My father wipes his hands on a dirty white apron. His arms and face have burn scars on them from a lifetime of operating the extremely hot ovens. I am only just beginning to notice them on my hands. 

“I am well, sir. It’s a rather big day today.” 

“Oh, yes. The annual reaping. Tell me, son, how many times is your name in this year?” The question may seem rude to anyone overhearing. Such a personal question, no one would dare ask otherwise. Gale and the baker have a personal relationship. They depend on each other in a way. They engaged in enough small talk through the years for the baker to know him as one of his sons. 

“Forty-two times.” Gale is a well-built young man about my age. I would believe it if he was a few years older however. Being from the Seam, he is strong and well fed. An unusual combination, as the Seam is the poorest part of the poorest District. Rarely do its children go to bed with a full stomach. I am very fortunate to have a lucky birth, here. 

Growing up in the merchant quarters has been a blessing, but there are countless nights I lay awake at night roused by the rumbling of my stomach. It surprises me to hear all the wind escape from his lungs while saying that number. 

“I am sorry to hear that.” The baker steps away for a moment and passes by me in an effort to reach in the oven for a recently baked loaf. 

“I can’t afford that, sir.” 

“It will only cost you a squirrel, son.” Gale, without question, reaches into his bag for the trade. This is an unusual trade from the baker. Usually he manages to put a few rolls together for a squirrel, certainly not an entire loaf. 

He has that Seam look to him; dark hair, tanned skin. My heart sinks when I hear his name will be in the reaping ball forty- two times. 

At the age of twelve, a child’s name is entered in the reaping ball for the Games. Each year your name is added. At thirteen your name will be entered twice. Fourteen three times and so on. There is also the option to enter your name in extra times for tesserae. Each tesserae is worth a supply of grain and oil for your name to be entered extra times. Each month you are entitled to a sack of grain, and container of oil meant to feed one person for a month. Obviously Gale has entered him name in for enough grain and oil to feed a family. 

I wanted to enter my name more times. I don’t want the tesserae for myself; I would rather someone else have it. With the leftovers from the bakery, and the occasional squirrel or rabbit is enough for me. Every time the subject comes up the Baker will change the subject, and my mother scolds me. 

“Thank you very much.” Gale pulls out a squirrel rather quickly. Probably hoping to make the trade before the Baker changes his mind. 

The Baker puts a reassuring hand on Gale’s shoulder. He leaves abruptly as the Baker closes the back door with the familiar rattle of the hinges. 

“Don’t tell your mother.” My father begins dressing the animal in our kitchen as I watch the front of the bakery. Today will be a short day; reaping days always are. One o’clock is mandatory attendance in the square. The doors will close at noon. It will make no difference when we close; no one is shopping today anyways. 

“Huh”, the Baker remarks. “Right through the eye.” He is referring to the manner which the squirrel was killed. Occasionally there are rough marks around the neck from a snare. Other times there is this, a clean shot through the eye from an arrow. 

“Do you want me to finish the cakes now or later?” I ask over the sizzling of squirrel on a rusty skillet. I decorate cakes for the bakery. We rarely sell any of the specialties; hardly anyone can afford it. They are usually for weddings, celebration, or special events such as the Hunger Games. “Why bother? It can wait till tomorrow.” He has a point. Even the mayor won’t be interested in one today. I might as well forget about the cakes, forget about the bakery. Nothing exists. Only the Games. 

The squirrel may have been a day or two old judging by the flavor. The Baker gives me a whole half since my two brothers are out. Besides, there doesn’t need to be any evidence of his poor trade lying around for Mother to just get furious over. 

She knows the value of good bread. Both of my brothers have felt her anger on both of our cheeks many times after ruining bread, or neglecting to keep an eye on our stock as a hungry customer’s temptation gets the best of them. Stealing is severely punished in District Twelve. Sometimes even that is irrelevant to the satisfaction of a full stomach. 

Clang! The back door flies open as Mother makes her way through the bakery. I rush over to close the door behind her, hiding the remaining grease on my lips from this morning’s treat. 

She inspects everything. The shelves, the pantry, even the ovens. “Stack the flour, Peeta! I asked you to do it last night, and still you can’t finish the simple task?” Her words usually don’t get to me. I know her language. Yelling is as common to her as calm speaking is to anyone else. 

I do stack the flour obediently. There are close to fifteen fifty pound bags of flour. The good stuff; nothing like the nasty tesserae grain. All the baked goods are made from this flour. I don’t know where it comes from-some other district. 

Usually I can tell the different grains apart based on the district they originate. This stuff is so fine, it’s hard to place.  
District Twelve is a coal district. My family is one of the few who have spent little time in the mines. 

“Why are we missing a loaf?” Mother asks in her normal yell. She leaves the oven door open apparently not concerned about the escaping heat. The Baker couldn’t seem to understand her concern. 

“I traded the loaf for a squirrel.” He confesses. This makes me uncomfortable. If I knew he would have told my mother the truth, I would have saved her some at the very least. I thought he was intending to keep it a secret when he instructed me, “Don’t tell your mother.” 

“Gale Hawthorn came by this morning. His name will be in forty- two times.” My mother’s expression only intensifies. 

“We are not running a charity!” I flinch as I expect her to hit him the way she would me or my brothers had we made the same trade. She doesn’t. The Baker only holds an equally stern expression as Mother relaxes. “What luck it would be to have someone like Gale Hawthorn as tribute.” A comment that truly disturbs the Baker, and I.  
“Get dressed, Peeta. Its near noon. Might as well close the doors now.”

It’s the first bath I take in nearly two days. You never really know how dirty you are until you clean yourself.   
I dress in clothes I wear for special occasion. Special deliveries to weddings or what have you for the cakes I decorate. And the reaping. It’s a plain white long sleeve shirt that I tuck into a beige pair of slacks. 

I don’t slick my hair back as I used to. I don’t like how it looks, an easy fix really. I’ll leave it as is. I just want it to be over for another year. “Just two more after today,” I say to myself. Two more times I could be picked as tribute for the Hunger Games. 

My father once knew someone who was reaped. Maysilee something. He rarely spoke of it. I’m afraid to ask. They must have been friends because whenever she comes up in conversation his voice gets shaky as if he wants to cry. 

My brothers and I make our way to the square. Mother and the Baker lag behind to finish their discussion about the bread back home. Hopefully it will be resolved shortly; the reaping being mandatory attendance and all. 

There are exceptions if you are dying. Usually a few Peacekeepers check on those people to make sure that they are truly dying. As long as you show up, they don’t care if you live or die. 

Being sixteen, I have rehearsed this plenty of times. There is a station you check in at. There, a Peacekeeper pricks your finger for blood. They have high tech devices that prove, with your blood, that you are who you say you are. Apparently, some time ago, there were some people who looked young that would take your position in the reaping if you could afford the luxury. 

Usually only rich folks would do this. It’s always some poor kid who signed up for a few tesserae. Last year, a couple of kids from the Seam were reaped. I know they couldn’t even imagine what it is like to have a full stomach. I barely do.

I make my way to an arbitrary location chosen for the boys. I notice Gale not too far away from me. His hands are gently behind his back as many Peacekeepers stand in public. He nods at me in acknowledgment and I return the gesture. 

As District Twelve makes its appearance in the square, two o’clock creeps up. Five minutes till, and a familiar face makes her way to the front of the Justice Building. Every year, Effie Trinket and her ridiculous Capitol fashion makes its unwelcome appearance to this highly celebrated, and even more so dreaded event.   
She would be quite beautiful if she only toned down the makeup. Besides, hair is never pink- at least it shouldn’t be. 

In front of the Justice Building is three chairs behind a lectern, as well as two large glass balls filled with slips of paper. Each one with a name. The unlucky one whose name will be picked by Effie is yet to be decided. Five of those slips are written “Peeta Mellark.” 

Effie takes her seat next to the District’s Mayor, Undersee. Of what little interaction I had with him, he was pleasant company.   
Instantly after the clock strikes two, Mayor Undersee reads the history of this place, Panem. We rose from the ruin of North America. All the natural disasters are listed, as well as the rebellion. The war that cost so much for so little in return seventy four years ago. The war none of us here have fought.

What rose from this war was called Panem, a shining city behind the Rocky Mountains west of here. Panem had many districts- thirteen. The thirteenth, however, was destroyed after the rebellion, what is referred to as the Dark Days. The Uprising. The Treaty of Treason granted us land, and ensured nothing of that scale would happen again. They remind us with the Hunger Games. 

It is a very simple event. Every year, one girl and boy is reaped from each district. In a short time, they are fed and trained to fight to the death in an arena. There are endless possibilities for what the arena could be. Out of twenty four tributes, one victor emerges. 

With the Hunger Games, no one can forget. Everyone is changed. Children become killers. We are to celebrate this event, worship the victors, and silently pray our children are safe. 

In seventy three years, only two victors originated from District Twelve. 

One, who I can’t name, died some years ago of age. The second is a drunk named Haymitch Abernathy. I remember watching the recapitulation of the year he won. It was pure intelligence that he won by throwing an axe down a cliff. It reverberated off a force field striking his last competition square in the face. He celebrates his victory through constant intoxication. 

You would have never guessed such a mess of a man that we have now was capable of this. He proceeds to embarrass himself by attempting to give Effie a big hug. It only resulted in her humiliation as her wig shifts slightly. 

I find it ironic. The tributes from twelve are almost always starving. Often the tributes are relieved they will be well fed for the rest of their lives. Quite literally. The Hunger Games are a sick expression of the Capitol’s power. Being a District Twelve tribute is a death sentence. 

Effie, in her vomit green suit, commutes to the stage in seemingly the most animated way possible.   
Her over the top personality explodes from every syllable that escapes her mouth. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.”  
She rambles on to an unresponsive audience. It is such a pleasure for her to be in the spotlight. I would never want to be there. In public, I mean. As a spectacle. Especially dressed like that, I would probably run away. 

She begins this moment that everyone dreads the exact same way. “Ladies first!” Her hand crosses into the girl’s ball. She takes her time choosing the slip under the impression that the anticipation makes the event that much more enjoyable. It simply makes everyone’s pain distress and anxiety last that much longer. What world does she live in to enjoy this?

“Primrose Everdeen.” It is a familiar name. One I am sure, given the face, I would know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reaping

“Prim! Prim!” The familiar voice strangles me as I remember who Primrose Everdeen is. That voice is a clear reminder. Primrose is a sweetheart. On occasion I see her standing outside the bakery looking at the cakes I decorate for the display window. She sells goat cheese to the Baker often. He is usually very generous with the trades. Always with her, her sister. Katniss. Katniss Everdeen.

“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!” She screams as if her life depended on her sister’s survival.

Confusion grips us all equally. None are confused as to why Katniss volunteers, just what she expects to accomplish, as well as how one volunteers. Never before in District Twelve. Never before. It is basically a suicide wish.

On stage, there is confusion about the proper protocol for volunteering. I have no idea how it works simply because no one has been mad enough, crazy enough, or fool hearty enough to volunteer for someone else. I get it, at least. I understand. I don’t know if I would ever volunteer. I don’t know, given that I would be fed, taken care of and such, I don’t think I would think it worth it.

Her name couldn’t have been in the reaping ball more than once. What does that say for my odds?

“Lovely!” Effie Trinket blurts in attempt to cover her uncertainty as to what her job requires her to do in this given situation. “But I believe there is a small matter of introducing the reaping winner, and then asking for volunteers, and if no one comes forth then we, um…” Her further unintelligible mumbles are interrupted by Mayor Undersee. “What does it matter? What does it matter? Let her come forward.”

Of what I can see, Prim is behind Katniss holding her as Katniss tries to stand between her and the front of the Justice Building. “No, Katniss! No! You can’t go!”

Haunting to hear such screams from a child. It is difficult to think the sweet girl I would see on the other side of the bakery window is making those cries.

“Prim, let go! Let go!” Ah that voice.

The Mayor is clearly expressing compassion for the girl. The girl with the braids.

Gale rushes from his position among the rest of the District Twelve boys to carry Prim away. A courtesy for Katniss I assume. She will have the opportunity to say a proper goodbye. The Peacekeepers all around are nervous and on alert. This is a rare occasion and probably the most action they have seen in a long time.

Her father died in a mining accident along with Gale’s. At least I think so. I’m not really sure. That was the rumor at least. They both know what it is like to have to support the family. Since then, I remember seeing her and Gale trading together at the local black market we call the Hob. They are inseparable friends. In fact, I bet Katniss shot the very squirrel I ate this morning.

The Mayor has a daughter about Katniss’ age. Madge Undersee. Her and Katniss seem to be friendly at least. Seeing her standing on stage in place of her sister reminds me all too much of how we met. Well, we never really met.

“Well, bravo!” Effie cries from her position. I think I may lose the squirrel. “That’s the spirit of the Games!” I see it in her eyes. Katniss is beginning to understand what she has done. Everyone all around her stand in shock at the most exciting or dramatic reaping in District Twelve’s history.

“What’s your name?” Effie pries, nudging her closer to the microphone so she could be heard in this state of shock. “Katniss Everdeen.” Her voice shakes much like the way I hear the baker’s when he talks about Mayslee. It shakes because she is being exploited for the world to see. It shakes because that the only way she can save her sister is to take her place.

“I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!” Effie can’t seem to handle this bit of luck she has. A volunteer is the biggest surprise of her life it seems.

Just like that, a few hands go up in the air. In District Twelve, there is this salute. You touch three fingers to your lips, then hold it outstretched pointing at someone who you think is worthy. It is usually given to high ranking authorities, funerals, and people of some importance. One only hopes for this gesture to be stretched to them once in their life; even more so that they live to see it. Few people are ever worthy of what we deem the highest honor here. In agreement, I kiss my three fingers, and salute our District’s female victor.

I remember the last time she stood there. I was twelve, I think. District Twelve being a mining district, the risks and dangers of the profession are always looming in the back of our heads every time we kiss our father or brother goodbye for the day. Every time they step on that elevator to be lowered into the deep belly of Earth, we have to consider the unthinkable.

The unthinkable did happen. Fortunately, being the son of the Baker, my father doesn’t work in the mines. Katniss’ did, as well as Gale’s, and many others. That is the fate of too many people here in Twelve.

A medal of valor was their compensation. They received their rewards on the steps of the Justice Building, in the place of their fathers.

About a month after this accident, I remember hearing the boom of the back door swinging open from my mother letting the heat out of the back. It was particularly hot in the bakery this inclement night. Hot for the beginning of spring.

The familiar yell of my mother wasn’t directed at me, that night. I observed her rush out back where we keep the trash bins. Whenever I notice someone rummaging for scraps at the bottom of our bins, I let them. What’s the harm?

Not my mother. “Get out!” She yelled. “The guards don’t take kindly to thieves!”

To this day I remember exactly what I was doing. There were a couple of loaves of this bread my grandfather taught the Baker how to make. It was a family recipe we all know. Unusually expensive stuff; raisins, nuts, and even this spice called cinnamon are mixed in the dough.

I remember because of the smell of my hands after kneading a huge batch for a good hour before. Now, every time I make this bread, I remember this night.

My mother just got back inside after yelling at the poor soul outside.

It may have been impulse, it may have been curiosity, but I looked out the window to see her. Katniss. The girl I remember standing in shock in front of the Justice Building a month prior. She changed completely from that incident. The face I remember from the first day of school; the girl with the braids.

I was five when I first went to school. It is the age the district requires people to begin their education.

I stood in front of the pitiful school building with the Baker, nervous to go in alone. I knew a few people already. Delly Cartwright, a childhood friend of mine, was supposed to meet us. She was running late I guess.

“See that little girl?” My father asked me as he pointed at someone my age. She wore a red plaid dress. Her hair was in two braids. I remember thinking she was very pretty; smiling continuously.

“I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.” I didn’t understand why she didn’t marry the Baker, leaving him with no other option than my mother of all people.

“A coal miner? Why would she want a coal miner if she could have had you?” My innocent mind then couldn’t understand, no, didn’t understand the impact her mother had on the Baker.

“Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen.”

Later that day, she sang the valley song for class. The girl with the braids. She had me at that moment and ever since. I never loved anyone, really. I never even liked a girl before. Not the way I felt about Katniss from that moment on. Even before I liked girls, I liked Katniss.

And there she was sitting in the rain under a tree. A few articles of baby clothes lay scattered to the side of her. It was probably her intention to trade the clothes for food. She was too young to have that kind of responsibility; feeding a family I mean.

If it was guilt, sympathy, or penance for never acknowledging her, I will never know.

The bread was near done, and I began pulling out two loaves. It must have been sympathy. I dropped the two loaves in the fire, but only just to burn them. At first it felt as if I didn’t want to, but did anyway. I don’t know.

Pulling the charred bread from the oven, I felt my mother’s hand on my cheek. It’s as if the wrath of the bakery fell between the four knuckles that made contact with my cheek.  
I quickly ran out back with the two loaves in my arms. I could still smell the cinnamon over burnt bread. “Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burnt bread!”

My mother was distracted by a customer in the front of the bakery giving me enough time to rip the charred ends of the loaves off, tossing them to the pig. Before tossing the good parts to Katniss, I look briefly back to make sure Mother wasn’t watching. Too shamed to look Katniss in the eye.

As soon as the loaves hit the ground, out of the corner of my eye, she accepted the gift leaving abruptly.

That is as close to meeting a person as I came to Katniss Everdeen. I regret it. I didn’t even say anything to her the days that followed; too embarrassed over the welt on my cheek from Mother. After that, I never was brave enough to introduce myself.

She and Gale are good friends. Oftentimes her and the Baker trade out back near where she stood helpless and alone. He is usually good to them. He understands their position, their misfortune, and the fact that they are the primary caregivers of their respective families. He respects that. The Baker used to be that way before his father died when he was seventeen. He inherited the place, and somehow or another managed to keep the doors open. He never spent a day in the mines, and he is proud of that.

Now, in front of the entire district, she is a tribute. Just as we lower our salute, Haymitch offers one of his own. I cringe at imagining all the infinite ways he could humiliate her in his drunken state. I don’t want him to. She doesn’t deserve that.

“Look at her. Look at this one!” He can barely stand, throwing an arm around her shoulder. I can tell this repulses Katniss. “I like her! Lots of…” Haymitch expresses uncertainty of what I can tell. It is almost funny. If the circumstances in which he was acting were different, maybe I would laugh. “Spunk!” The way he half yells the word makes the microphones amplify static. His eyes lock on Effie. “More than you!” He releases Katniss from his grip, pointing with his hand into one of the cameras. “More than you!”

Just like that his balance evaporates leaving his body with no other option than to plummet offstage, unconscious.

This is something appropriate to chuckle at, at least in my opinion. It relieves the pain from seeing her take Prim’s place. It relieves the anxiety of reaping day.

Effie attempts to regain the attention of the camera’s and crowd while Haymitch is being carried away on a stretcher. This is what winning the Games looks like? “What an exciting day!” She continues. Her wig is still very badly off center from the previous encounter with Haymitch.

“But more excitement is to come! It’s time to choose our boy tribute!”

Her hand hovers over the boys reaping ball in a similar fashion with the girls. It annoys me. That same anxiety from the crowd is all that she prolongs.

Five out of a countless number of those pieces say Peeta Mellark. I try to relax myself as I remind myself that the odds are indeed in my favor. It doesn’t help. My heart rate is out of control as it is every other reaping. There is no way it will be me, I think to myself. Two more times after today.

“Peeta Mellark.”

Eyes make their way to steal a glance of my surprise. My despair. Somewhere out there are my two other brothers who I lost in the confusion of moving in large crowds.

Somewhere there is my father and mother who now know their son will be forever changed. They are.

The moment pauses almost. Time ceases to exist as I look to my left and right at the countless boys who don’t have to worry about being chosen anymore. I see relief masked by this fake sympathy they have for me. My hands flex into a fist as I swallow my anxiety.

I am already dead, I accept this. The truth of the matter now is that I am already dead.

It takes me six or seven steps for me to remember to breath. My chest expands as I compensate for lost breath, pushing my shoulders back to at least look like a tribute. What’s the point? At the very least, I won’t ever need to be hungry again for the rest of my life. I am already dead.

Each step towards Effie Trinket, each step up the Justice Building is a sack of flour being plopped on my chest; one after the other, after the other.

“Any volunteers?” Effie chirpily calls to the unresponsive crowd. Silence is the answer. I can make out the Baker in the far back standing alone. He is all by himself. His stern glare is the only thing keeping me calm. I stare back at him, not taking my eyes off of him. My whole life, he was the example of how I should carry myself. As a child, the Baker was a source of a calm yet assertive energy that my mother never was. Any question I had, whatever I wanted to talk about, he would always listen. He was always there when I cried. Now, I am leaving him alone, and his strength in this moment has to be mine.

On the other side of the square is my mother. Her arms are crossed, shaking her head slightly. There isn’t any pain in those eyes. Nothing. She is witnessing a reaping. It just so happens I am the reaped. I could not imagine what it must feel like for one of my brothers to have been reaped. Pain. Intense grief. There are not words to describe what I would feel. Are there words for what it must feel like to watch your own child, someone you birthed, someone who suckled on your own breast for survival, someone you watched grow, walk, and cry be reaped? Is there nothing more painful?

Her eyes meet mine. They hold my gaze as if I were asking a question about the nights labor for a morning sale. That is what she must be losing. Not a son; an employee.

The Treaty of Treason is read by the Mayor as it is every year. I notice Effie, who clearly has been rehearsing this moment since the last Games. She mouths nearly every word of the Treaty.

I begin to look down at my arms and hands in front of me. There is no hair on my arms; it was all scorched off from the ovens, and probably can’t grow back if I stayed alive for the next month.

There are some familiar burn scars on my hands. One on my right little finger from when I was little. Three maybe. I didn’t mean to touch the ovens, I didn’t know any better. It bled and swelled. What a horrible experience.

Then there’s the one on my left forearm. It stretches from my wrist halfway to my elbow. Let’s just say the Baker thought of a smarter place to hang the knives after I got that.  
Just like that, the Treaty was read. I didn’t catch a single word. I can’t hold a thought in my mind. Not until the Mayor commands the tributes to shake hands.

It is traditional, even though we are technically enemies, we shake in acknowledgment. Only one of us can make it out alive. Certainly not I. What is the point?

Here is the chance I had and too many times let it go. All the regrets I had for not greeting the girl with the braids, all the times my gaze lingered on her after school, I can now give her the common greeting she deserves.

Her hair is pinned up in a single braid. Her dress is a light blue with matching shoes. She is a spectacle, assuming you overlook her shock.

She has rather narrow shoulders, tanned Seam skin and hair. Beautiful grey eyes with specks of green and yellow. Just as beautiful as that day my father pointed to her. “See that girl?” I hear ring in my ears over and over.

For every moment I almost said hello, for every moment I take in a deep whiff of our good bread, for the eleven years I have been silent to her, I shake her hand in the best way I can think of to communicate this.

I look into her grey eyes, and she seems every bit as terrified as I.


	3. Chapter 3

Just like that, we are taken away. My first impulse is to resist the grip of the two Peacekeepers on each side of me, holding onto each arm with both hands. It happens so fast as I’m shuffled with my fellow tribute inside the Justice Building. I have been inside here, many times before, to deliver cakes. I know most of the rooms here. 

The room Katniss is stored in, to say her final goodbyes I assume, is a nice lounging area. The one I continue down the hall to is a room similar to that. 

It’s funny, I still expect to hear the familiar rattling of the hinges as the Peacekeepers shut the door. I guess my disposition hasn’t sunk in yet. 

All around my feet is soft carpeting. It must have cost a fortune. Probably ten cakes worth. My feet sink in with every step I take. And the sofa. It’s as if I am suspended in air when I sit. So soft. So comforting. The color reminds me of Effie’s gross suit. Vomit green. I don’t mind really. It’s the first time I have stayed inside the Justice Building too long. 

The Baker gently eases the door open, shutting it behind him. He takes his seat next to me with the expression he has after a long day’s work in the bakery. 

“How are you feeling, son?” I rub my hands together, slowly thinking of an appropriate response. They are sweating like crazy. 

“I’m fine, I think.” That similar sensation of forgetting to breathe overcomes me again. It’s silly, really. “Will you have enough help at the bakery when I’m,” 

“Shut up.” The Baker interrupts me midsentence. His tone wasn’t angry. I suspect he just doesn’t want me talking that way. About dying, I mean. Also, there probably isn’t enough time for that so we might as well skip ahead to through the conversation anyway.

It affects him a lot. Death. Often times, after an accident in the mines, a family will rush past the bakery, completely distraught, carrying a coal clad fellow to the Everdeen residence in the Seam. Katniss’ mother is a healer. She fixed up the gash running down my left arm that gave me that scar. She’s good, her mother. 

Sometimes the family will get the injured miner there in time. Sometimes, there just isn’t hope. It’s beyond repair. The Baker always trembles when he sees the frightened family run with what they have left of their father, their son, their brother. He steps outside for a long time, staring up at the sky. 

Once, I had to clean up the trail of blood in front of the bakery that was left behind from an unfortunate miner whose leg was cleaved clean off. I’ll always remember that smell.   
Those screams. 

“Don’t talk.” He continues. He thrusts out his hands to convey his right to speak. 

“There isn’t much time, I have to make this fast.” He rubs his grey beard as he swallows air for what must be a speech.   
“You are my son, Peeta. You are a part of me that can’t be replaced. The Games are taking you away; they are taking a piece of me away.” I feel his words rattling in my head like those damn hinges. “You have to promise me something, Peeta.” I lean in closer as his voice becomes very shaky. “You have to promise me that you know who you are. You know who you are when you die, son.” What does he mean?

A lump begins to form in my throat. I can’t remember the last time I cried. It must have been a few years ago. There mustn’t be any good reason to cry as of late.   
“I don’t want to watch you die. I also don’t want to lose you. Do you understand?” I think so. What could he mean exactly? 

“I think so.” 

“No. You need to know. You are Peeta Mellark. Die as Peeta Mellark. Don’t die as District Twelve’s tribute.” 

The Peacekeeper opens the door, and signals to the Baker the time is up. The last moment he had with his son has run out. 

“Promise?” He asks. “I promise.” We shake hands formally, and he leaves. That’s it. That was our moment. 

It doesn’t take long for my mother to be shuffled in after. I know why they visited me separately. It would have been a much harder moment to handle if all the conversation was directed at each other’s throats. 

She just stands there at first with her arms closed; like she is listening to someone tell her how to heat her own oven. 

Slowly but surely, she makes it over to the couch next to me. It’s a moment with such little hostility, I can’t remember when last she was this calm. 

“It’s a shame really,” she begins scratching the back of her head with one hand while leaving the other in the crossed position in front of her. “I may have to hire an extra hand.” Like I said, her words rarely get to me. 

“Prim would be a good worker.” I suggest trying to keep conversation. When was the last time we had one? 

“No, those bags of flour weigh as much as her.” That makes me chuckle a little. 

I sit in silence waiting for the Peacekeeper. Waiting to be relieved from this. Relief is a type of pleasure. 

“She’s a survivor that one,” Mother breaks the silence. I try to make eye contact with her. She avoids my gaze. “She is.” Her eyes serious, and straight on me.

“Prim?” I ask. Who else could she be talking about? 

“Katniss.” She answers finally, just before the Peacekeeper opens the door to conclude our final moment. 

“I wish I knew her,” I say.

“Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner.” She points at the wall as she says this.

I don’t understand at first. Then I remember the way she pointed at the wall assuming I knew she was pointing in the direction of the other room. The room Katniss has been in to say her final goodbyes. She was pointing to Katniss. Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. 

Anger is the only emotion I have room for at this pressing moment. Maybe resentment as well. For my mother. The woman whose wrath would be felt as quickly as a slice of bread can hit the floor. The woman who could spend the last moment with her son, before being hauled off to slaughter, talking about the vicissitudes of her work force. My death is an inconvenience to her profession. 

That’s where the tears come. Anger is expressed in funny ways. I can’t remember the last time I cried. There hasn’t been a good reason to until now. I can only imagine how this will affect the rest of my life. 

Her words usually don’t get to me. 

Just like that, it was all over. Tears from each eyes ran down my cheeks only to be soaked up by my sleeve. The Peacekeepers rush in to escort me. I’m using ‘escort’ in the most liberal way I can. More like led or even forced. Katniss, and Effie have made it to the car seconds before me. They sit next to each other leaving just enough room for me to squeeze in on the shiny leather seats. 

The car they drive us in to the train station is nice. It’s a car after all. Out of the window, I barely make out the last sight of Mother, and the Baker walking back from where they came this afternoon. 

That lump is still in my throat, my eyes flood a little. That’s the last time I will ever see them, I think to myself. 

It seems Effie is never quiet. She never slows down to take a breath. She is the most excited person I ever met about anything. 

Katniss, on the other hand is strictly observant. She glances from left to right at the wall of Peacekeepers lined all the way down the road to the train. To the swarm of reporters fighting to get a glimpse of the new tributes. Even to me. 

She must know what puffy red eyes mean. Funny, she bears no evidence of being emotional herself. She only momentarily gazes at me with this sense of superiority, pitying my lack of control with emotion. The only difference in her is I notice a small gold pin fixed to her dress. It reminds me of a similar pin Madge Undersee usually wore for special occasion. It must be her token.

Each tribute is allowed a token to wear in the arena to remind them of home. There isn’t much of an option for me. My only memories I have of home is the bakery. Perhaps I’ll be my own token. My identity will be what I take in the arena to remind me of home.

I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. I can’t pretend to know what she is really thinking. 

“Up, up, up!” Squeals Effie as she is the first to exit the car. She motions for Katniss first, taking her hand to help her out of the car. I scoot over. The sound my slacks make rubbing against the leather surprises me. It is a sound comparable to the sound made when one expels gas. 

I make my way to Effie and Katniss who are standing in front of the train. The two are complete opposites. Effie, the flamboyant citizen of the Capitol, stands straight smiling in all of the flashing lights of the media who come to get the first glimpse of the Seventy- Forth Games’ tributes. Then there is Katniss, I haven’t seen her smile since I was five years old. She only tolerates the hype of the journalists and photographers while Effie clings to the attention. 

I guess all there is for me is to be somewhere in between. I hate attention, but I will try to enjoy it. I’ll put on a smile when I have to I guess. Try not to think of the barbarism that all the attention is focused on. They aren’t cheering me; they are cheering my death, her death, the death of twenty three tributes for their entertainment. 

The Capitol doesn’t need the Games to ensure their control over the districts. They have it. We know it, and so do they. The Games are to entertain. 

Inside the train is much like the Justice Building but clearly, far better maintained. The furniture is a lot richer, and the table where I assume we will eat dinner is lined with very expensive cutlery. 

Katniss gets her own quarters, as do I. Effie instructs me to dress however I’d like, do whatever I’d like. Just be ready for supper in an hour. 

Just this morning, I had two more reaping’s left after today. Undressing reminds me exactly what I was thinking. The thought doesn’t upset me. It should. I throw the white shirt and beige pants on the bed. I have no use for them anymore.

The closet is nice. There are dark pants lined on one side, and an assortment of shirts on the other. Most of the pants are a mocha brown, or a very rich green. They remind me of the way trees look on a stormy day, or a misty morning. 

Across from the closet is the bathroom. It is so large, I could never imagine who must use it. To who is this a normal facility? 

In the bakery, there is one mirror. It is cracked from top to bottom. There are plenty of imperfections on it that distort your reflection. All my life, that is the only way I knew what I looked like. I saw myself only in that sheet of glass for as long as I can remember. 

The mirror in the bathroom is so large, for the first time in my life, I know what I look like. What every bit of myself looks like. 

My hair is a lot messier than I intended. I knew that perfectly well this morning. I guess you could say I have wide shoulders for someone from the coal mining district. Mostly everyone is tall and thin. All the years of hauling flour from the market in town to the bakery gives me physique. 

I forget I am naked as I observe every detail from head to toe. The first time I ever had this opportunity. 

I quickly throw on a dark pair of pants much like the ones I wore today. Not in color, but style. There is a nice t-shirt that is meant to be worn under a buttoned shirt. It feels so soft and comforting, I don’t care I am technically wearing underwear to supper. 

Just then, as I slide the white shirt over my head, there is a knock at the door. I can’t hear exactly what Effie is squealing through the door, I can only assume supper. 

The shirt and pants fit perfectly well. Usually my clothes were originally my brother’s or even the Baker’s. As a result, they didn’t always fit properly. This pair of pants perfectly fits around my waist. The cuffs barely reach the heel of my shoes. And the shirt feels wonderful. It is fairly tight around my arms, and chest. It isn’t too revealing, but I wouldn’t care if it was anyway. It’s just nice. I would wear this every day back at the bakery. 

I don’t realize how tall I am until I have to duck slightly to walk through the doorways of this train.

Katniss appears after I sit at the table. Effie is in front of me, and there is a chair open, next to mine, that Katniss comfortably sits. She is wearing a dark green shirt like some of the clothing in my closet. The pants are almost identical; they are tailored for a woman though. 

Indeed that is Madge’s pin she is wearing. It is pinned on the same spot as it was on her blue dress. I recognize the symbol now. It is a mockingjay mid flap. I like those birds.   
The name is alludes to its origin. It is a combination of two birds, actually. The jabberjay, and the mockingbird. 

The jabberjay is an invention of the Capitol. During the war between the districts and the government, the Capitol created a species of birds inspired by the mockingbird. It had the ability to memorize an entire conversation. The creepy part was it could speak with the same voice as the original speaker. For example, a jabberjay could listen to me say this, spit it back, and you could not tell the difference between it and I based only on hearing. 

Soon enough, the rebels knew about the birds, and they simply spread a lot of false information verbally, conveying truth only through written word. 

The Capitol stopped the manufacture of the jabberjay. It was now useless. Interestingly enough, the Capitol only made these birds male. 

The species itself couldn’t procreate after the abandonment of the Capitol, there being no female jabberjays. 

As a result, the male jabberjay mated with the female mockingbird. The jabberjay being so closely related to the mockingbird made this possible. It was inspired by the mockingbird. 

A new species called the mockingjay was introduced. This bird kept the ability to memorize long complex language as the jabberjay did. However, that language wasn’t literary, it was musical. 

Long complex songs could be sung to the mockingjay, and if the bird liked the tune, it would be mocked. 

To this day I remember hearing a man singing a song. I forget the words. I’m sure I could remember them somehow. The song was so beautiful, the mockingjay repeated every note he sang. They are beautiful birds, truly. It was a marvelous tune. One I will sometimes hum.

The Baker often feeds a flock near the bakery. They are friendly to us and will come close enough for me to be able to sketch or observe. 

It is a funny symbol to be worn on a pin. 

“Where’s Haymitch?” Effie asks me. Her voice and accent snap me out of my daydream. “Last I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap.” I can’t help but glance over back at Katniss’ pin as I reply. “Well, it’s been an exhausting day.” It is exhausting for her watching children be taken from their homes to fight to the death for her amusement. 

Supper comes in what I think is called courses. I don’t have time to enjoy any of it. The only thing I notice is I don’t have to bite down nearly as hard on the bread; it isn’t stale.   
I never had meat other than squirrel and rabbit. The Baker bought a pig years ago, but I never tasted it. Mother insisted on selling it to repair an oven. It was a disappointment. I hear pork is delicious. Then again, the Baker doesn’t encourage the consumption of pork. Not only is it dangerous to eat, but his family traditionally never ate it. I don’t know why.

The meat I eat is called lamb. It tastes nothing like what I am used to. There is only so much I can eat at a time. Part of me hates that I will be granted the pleasure of food while there are so many others who would kill for my stale morning roll. Also another part of me feels slightly ill from eating such quantity. 

“At least, you two have decent manners. The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion.” The comment from Effie strikes a nerve as I remember the two children who are now dead. They were from the Seam, the poorest part of the poorest district. I can’t imagine what life was like for them. I can’t imagine who Effie is to say something like that. 

Katniss passive aggressively starts eating with her hands as Effie just described. It makes me smile, but she doesn’t look up. Katniss hasn’t looked me in the eye since our hand shake. Does she remember? 

A reminder of home that almost makes me emotional is the desert. A chocolate cake. I never had chocolate before either, and we rarely use it in the bakery. When we do, the smell is so seducing, I almost try to suck in the flavor as I breathe. I know I would never taste it myself. 

Now that I have, it tastes as it smells. It’s good. It’s hard to enjoy. Hard to keep down. 

Effie leads us to another compartment in the train to watch the reaping from other districts. Apparently Capitol citizens watch this all day.   
Beginning with District 1 and ending with District 12. There are plenty of faces, all I will know shortly. These will be the people I will die with; Peeta Mellark will die with. 

Katniss expresses recognition for a girl from District 11. Rue, I believe. Rue is about Prim’s age and height. 

I hope Prim is okay. She is bound to be. Katniss’ sister will not go to bed hungry tonight. 

The faces flash by seemingly instantly. From Rue’s district is a boy named Thresh. He must be the largest of them all, with Cato from District 2.   
It’s hard to absorb. I can barely watch our own reaping again. Prim is picked, and Katniss heroically swings forward to volunteer. The entire square salutes her, Katniss Everdeen.   
And I. I softly meander to the front of the Justice Building, and take my place. Mark my headstone. 

Haymitch offers a lot of comic relief. “Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior.” I have to laugh to keep myself sane. 

“He was drunk. He’s drunk every year.” What do you expect? Give the guy a break.

Unexpectedly, Katniss offers her input. “Every day.” She smiled for the first time since we were five. It is beautiful, and a short one. It lasted for maybe a second. She looked at me with her grey eyes. I notice specks of green in them with even less yellow. Definitely grey. She is beautiful. 

“Yes, how odd you two find it amusing. You know, your mentor is your life-line to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!” 

A clatter grabs my attention as, in the flesh, Haymitch Abernathy makes his debut. “I miss supper?” He mumbles. His shirt buttons are staggered, of the ones that are. He wobbles which worries me. Almost instantly, he pukes all over the carpet, landing a bit on me, and falls face first in the reeking ooze. 

“So laugh away!” Her spite leaves with her: abruptly.


	4. Chapter 4

I fight not to cringe as the smell fills every space in the train car.  I notice Katniss is very uncomfortable; she holds her stomach.  As if I am the one in charge, she glances my way to see what I do in response. 

Haymitch manages to stand back up, only to fumble back to his knees in his vomit.  I feel so sorry for him.  This is what winning looks like.  This is how the victors cope.  Drink until you can’t stand to water down the horrible memories of killing people you don’t know. 

I step forward taking Haymitch’s left arm.  Katniss follows my lead with the right.  “I tripped?”  Half asking as puke drips from the stubble on his chin.  I notice how badly drenched the clean white shirt I am wearing is.  There must be loads back in my room so I don’t really care.  “Smells bad.”  He adds.  Katniss is following my lead as I mostly carry Haymitch back to his compartment.  I don’t know exactly where it is.  I assume it must have a similar odor as this one now does. 

“Let’s get you back to your room, clean you up a bit,” I try to say as relaxed as I can.  He feels like a bag and a half of flour.  Katniss follows with his other arm, but I mostly bear the weight.  She must not weigh more than three quarters bag of flour herself. 

As I expected, I came to a room that reeked of alcohol and god knows what else.  Clothes everywhere.  His bathroom is just like mine.  I lay him in the bathroom, and Katniss flips on the shower.  She must know how to use it; I have never seen anything like it in my life.  Water that falls from the ceiling?  Really?  That exists?

“It’s okay, I’ll take it from here.”  I say to Katniss.  I can tell she can hardly wait to leave.  I don’t blame her. 

“All right,” she says in reply.  “I can send one of the Capitol people to help you.”  Her voice is so soft, my muscles relax, and I nearly drop Haymitch.  His weight leaning on mine pulls me back to reality.

“No.  I don’t want them.”  The last thing I want is to see another Capitol citizen.  I’d rather do this for Haymitch every day than have their help.

I doubt Haymitch even knows what is happening at this moment.  I bet he spends much of his waking time in this state.  I will soon know his pain. 

After Katniss leaves, I decide to carefully peel off my shirt, and toss it aside.  I am careful not to let the vomit get in my hair as I do.  While the water is pouring on Haymitch, I begin to wash my chest over his sink, getting all of the filth off myself before I do the same for our mentor. 

“Ha, what is it my birthday?”  I hear from the tub.  Alcohol does strange things to someone’s tongue.  “Sorry kid, not my type.”  I stare at his pathetic self from the reflection of the mirror over his sink.  I pity him.

Haymitch stirs in the tub.  I am guessing he now realizes where he is.  He has a lot more physical control in his inebriation than I expected.  After all he couldn’t even walk moments ago.  He begins to unbutton his shirt.  What makes me nervous is he is trying to stand.  A drunk man standing on wet porcelain just sounds dangerous to say. 

“No, sit for a while.”  I order him.  He motions to the controls of the shower.  Maybe he just wants it off.  I press in a knob I think Katniss did.  The shower stops leaving the bathroom quiet.  Only Haymitch’s breath is audible. 

“What’s your name?”  Haymitch asks bewildered. 

“Peeta Mellark.” 

“Well Peeta,” he looks me in the eyes, pointing at me.  “You’re a good kid.”  He slaps my left thigh.

He insists on standing, and I feel as if I have to.  In his state, he still can’t take a step by himself.  “Ha, imagine, if you win, you could end up just like me!”  Haymitch falls right into my arm, and I attempt to pull him to his bed in the other room. 

“It’s no use boy,” he laughs continuously at nothing.  A side effect of the alcohol.  

Out of nowhere, the laughs turn to sobs.  In my arms, a grown man twice my age is crying.  He clings to me as we kneel in the soft carpet.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.” If only a pat on the back would suffice. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Haymitch.  Try to sleep it off.”  I pull at him to stand, the sobs only increase. 

“It’s my fault, it’s all my fault!”  His breath suffocates me in this proximity. 

“What is your fault, Haymitch?”  It is difficult to sympathize with what you don’t know. 

“Maysilee.  I let her go.  I let her die!”  I don’t know what it is Haymitch thinks he is responsible for.  All I know is her death, now, inspires Haymitch to drown his consciousness daily. 

“Listen to me,” I begin as I pull my mentor off my shoulder.  His eyes meet mine.  He looks so helpless.  A clumsy drunk is all I thought him to be.  I didn’t even grant him personhood until this moment he expressed his undeniable humanity.  The same drunk who humiliated Effie Trinket today, as well as District Twelve with his actions today.   I would have never guessed there was any good reason, or even explanation for this.

“Whatever it is, whoever is now dead it is not your fault.”  Haymitch cringes and is about to let out a huge wail.  “No, Haymitch!  It is not your fault!  You can’t go on like this, damn it!  Pull yourself together.” 

I leave him on his bedroom floor.  The smell must have been horrible, and I just got used to it; the entire train now smells sweet.  I know it didn’t before, it must just be the comparison. 

I pass Effie Trinket who must have overheard my outburst.  She stands in shock as she sees me, without a shirt, make my way back to my room. 

I try not to think about it.  About Haymitch, about Maysilee, about it all.  _Is this what awaits the victor?_

Now that I know how the showers work, I can at least take one myself.  The water is very warm, and comforting.  I want to stand there for hours on end just soaking in the steaming rain.  Forget about it all. 

I woke up early the next morning, earlier than I am used to.  Effie was just getting up, and I think she was embarrassed I saw her that early.  It was before she put on her makeup.  Honestly, she is beautiful without it.  Why does the Capitol make people think they are only beautiful when they’re fake?

She has fair skin as I do.  I don’t understand why she hides behind the gross stuff.  She can’t be ashamed, she is very pretty by herself.  Who knows? 

 Haymitch was up before either of us, though.  I can guess he doesn’t sleep too well. 

“Good morning, Haymitch.”  He isn’t eating.  There is a cup filled with what looks like a tea of some sort.  It doesn’t smell like tea, more like a strong liquor. 

“You’re up early,” he comments as he sips from the cup. 

I take a seat, and a Capitol servant hands me a menu of drinks.  I notice “hot chocolate” is available.  I am curious if it is as good as a drink as it is in pastries.  I never heard of drinking chocolate before.  There is also an assortment of coffee on the list. I remember coffee; the Baker sometimes bought it.  You’re supposed to mix in some milk or cream, but we couldn’t afford to compromise any of our supply.  I never liked it much anyway.  _“It’s an acquired taste,”_ the baker would say. 

“Hot chocolate would be fine.”  The Capitol servant bows a little in silent reply.  I don’t know how exactly to respond.  Haymitch sensed it made me feel a bit uncomfortable, he chuckles a little during a sip.  His face is a bit bruised from the tumble he took the night before. 

It feels very unwise to bring up last night in his room.  Hopefully he doesn’t remember so I would be spared the awkward apology or whatever would be customary after balling your eyes out on someone’s shoulder you don’t know. 

“So what is your angle?” Haymitch’s head is tilted as he asks the question, placing the cup back down in its saucer.  He jitters with a butter knife that is set nicely next to a spoon. 

“My angle?”  I ask. 

“Yes, how do you expect to sell yourself to the Capitol?  You need their favor somehow.” 

I imagine the idea of people I would never know cheering my name as I bleed the life from someone else.  It is certainly a thought I can cringe at. 

“I have no idea.” 

“Well, you have competition for sponsors, even from Katniss.  No, especially from Katniss.  What she did would guarantee her a hefty sum of sponsors.  What do you have?”  That’s just it, I don’t know. 

“What could I have?  I am nobody.”  His face tightens as he is realizing I already gave up long before this conversation.  It was only yesterday I found out I would need to reserve a grave. 

“Unfortunately, that may be true.”  Is it good he agrees?

I am reminded of my hunger as the Capitol servant places a mug of hot chocolate in front of me.  It is even better as a drink.  It is very rich, so I hold back on food for the moment.  I settle for a roll that was neatly arranged on a plate of a dozen others. 

Effie rushes to the other side of the compartment where Katniss is sleeping.  I notice Effie pasted her face with that outrageous makeup.  I almost want to tell her that her looks really would be improved if she didn’t wear so much.  That just feels extremely rude to say, though.  As long as she likes the way she looks, it shouldn’t matter what I think. 

“I need a drink,” Haymitch mutters as he prepares a concoction at a table.  It is blood red, and I can smell it from over here, five feet away.

“Don’t you think you should stay sober?”  I ask nervously afraid of any response he may have. 

“Well, you admitted there is no hope for you.  I might as well enjoy myself while I am sending yet another pair off to die.”  It is true.  No one from District Twelve ever wins.  Haymitch is laughing while he sits.  His behavior only provokes me.  His habit will hurt me, and Katniss.  If he cared about this at all, he would at least not drink on the job.  We depend on him.

A huge plate of food is delivered to his place at the table.  He doesn’t touch a spoonful, and I can only imagine what people back home would do just to smell it. 

Katniss marches in wearing her gold mockingjay pin on a shirt I think she wore yesterday.  Haymitch cringes at the sight of the pin for some reason.  “Sit down!”  Haymitch orders to Katniss.  His breath reeks.  “Sit down!”

Katniss takes her place next to me.  The same servant brings her a huge plate of food, like Haymitch’s.  They give her orange juice, and a mug of hot chocolate.  She eyes the mug as if she is confused.  I doubt she has ever seen it before; I didn’t even know it existed when I woke up today. 

“They call it hot chocolate, it’s good.”  I offer, taking a sip myself. 

She takes a suspecting sip.  After she realized how good it is, it disappeared before I could blink as well as half the amount of food on her plate. 

“So you’re supposed to give us advice?”  Katniss spits a bit as she gets out the question.  Haymitch takes another large sip from the cup. 

“Here’s some advice, stay alive.”  He laughs through the words.  His eyes are glazed.

I hope he isn’t already getting drunk.  He bursts out laughing in a way that convinces me that that is the case.  That breath is unbearable. 

My anger rises as Katniss gives me a look similar to the one she gave me last night when Haymitch lay in his own filth.  I can’t help it but I am getting very upset with Haymitch.  I don’t usually get mad.  It’s more of a matter of principle in this case. 

“That’s very funny,” I say.  The next thing I do, I don’t even expect.  I have never hit anyone in my life.  I only know how it feels.  I slap the glass out of Haymitch’s hand, hoping to recreate what my mother does.  To my surprise, it flies from his hand, and shatters all over the floor.  Effie turns in surprise at the loud crash of glass with the floor.  “Only not to us.”  I make out after the initial shock of my own behavior.  He deserved it.  But what the hell, Peeta?  I mean, damn, that was uncalled for.

Haymitch lashes back unexpectedly.  His fist swings making contact with my jaw.  I am so surprised, I lose all balance and fall back on the floor.  It is a much stronger and well placed strike than any of my mother’s.  I am fairly used to hers’ by now.  _Is this what it will be like in the arena?_

Katniss bravely slams a knife next to his hand.  I know she is a hunter, and that she is brave.  Who knows the occupational hazards that come with poaching?  That doesn’t matter.  What does is that she is in agreement with me; she is on my side. 

“Well, what’s this?  Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?”  As I get up, I feel my jaw throb with that familiar sensation.  I can already feel it swell.  I make my way to grab some ice.  I know from experience how to handle this.

“No, let the bruise show,” Haymitch steps in my direction, waving away my hand that now grasped some ice.  “The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute before you’ve even made it to the arena.” 

“That’s against the rules,” I mutter through the throbbing pain of my jaw.  It makes it really hard to open my mouth and maintain diction in my speech. 

“Only if they catch you.”  Haymitch must be good about finding a way around everything.  It must make his job that much easier as a mentor.  Maybe not necessarily a better mentor.  “That bruise will say you fought, you weren’t caught, even better.”  It makes sense, I guess.  Maybe I could do with some optimism, even if it isn’t realistic. 

“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”  He turns to Katniss who seems engrossed in Haymitch’s advice to me.  She doesn’t hesitate to pluck the knife from the table, ark her arm, and send it straight into the wall.  It is a very impressive shot, she buried it in between the panels on the wall.  It seems she isn’t too bad with a knife in addition to her archery skills. 

Haymitch winces at the knife, and motions to the both of us, “Stand over here. Both of you.”  We stand side by side in the middle of the room.  Haymitch reminds me of a customer in the bakery; pacing the shop, taking notes of what he might buy. 

He squeezes my arms, and raises his eyebrows in response.  He looks me in the eye, and pokes me hard in the middle of the chest.  I assume this is mostly for his own amusement. 

Haymitch turns to Katniss who is not much shorter than me, but much smaller in figure.  He must admire her greatly as I do; he doesn’t lay a finger on her.  He only looks in her eyes for a long time.  She tries to look away, glancing down at the floor then back at him. 

“Well, you’re not entirely hopeless.  Seem fit.  And once the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.” 

I hate the idea of being made up the way stylist usually dress the tributes.  It is humiliating, at the very least, an unflattering process. 

“All right, I’ll make a deal with you.  You don’t interfere with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help _you.”_   I can’t help but feel that was directed at me.  “But you have to do exactly what I say.” 

“Fine.”  If there was a better response to that empty promise of his, I wish I knew it. 

“So help us,” Katniss speaks up.  “When we get to the arena, what’s the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone…” 

“One thing at a time,” Haymitch interrupts.  “In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into the station.  You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists.  You’re not going to like what they do to you.  But no matter what it is, don’t resist.”  He finishes. 

“But…”

“No buts.  Don’t resist,” finishes Haymitch.  I can tell Katniss doesn’t like the idea of having a stylist any more than I do. 

Haymitch must be really needing a drink because I notice his hand is shaking rapidly as he reaches for a bottle from the table.  He leaves us alone in the compartment while the train pulls up to the Capitol. 

The Capitol is behind what was called the Rocky Mountains.  It was a good place for the Capitol during the rebellion.  Rebels had to scale the mountain to reach the Capitol so the aircrafts could easily target the enemy. 

We pass through a long tunnel.  It is as dark as death in the tunnel.  There are some lights that originate inside the train that don’t leave Katniss and me to grope around aimlessly.  I can tell she isn’t comfortable, and my presence doesn’t help much.  She doesn’t know me; probably doesn’t even remember who I am.  I am her fellow tribute.  I am an obstacle between her and victory.  I hope that’s not how she sees me.  Not now that I finally got to meet her, speak with her, live my final days with her.  I regret not being her friend. 

Just like that, the train slows, flooding the compartment with bright light.  The first view of the Capitol are available in the window, we both rush over to see.  I only have seen the Capitol in pictures, and that is exactly how it looks.  It’s too spectacular to be real. 

There is no transition between the dull District Twelve, and the shining Capitol.  Everything is so rich, and colorful.  I didn’t know so much color could coexist.  The people, the signs, buildings are all flooding my eyes with an almost painful view. 

Many of the citizens point, and cheer.  They probably know it’s a tribute train.  I feel my stomach want to regurgitate as I think of it.  But I have to put a smile on my face.  I have to enjoy it as much as they do.  I have to give them what I want.  Even if I have no chance realistically.  Maybe it will help Katniss if I appear to be willing to conform to their ways. 

I notice Katniss is just as baffled as I.  Our eyes meet in the shock of being immersed in this culture.  I shrug nonchalantly, “Who knows?  One of them may be rich.”  I smile, and wave away myself.  I wave away my identity, and I know it.  I am conforming, doing just what the baker made me swear I wouldn’t.  Peeta Mellark won’t survive. 


	5. Chapter 5

The routine leaving the train was similar to entering it back in District Twelve.  I threw on a smile for all the flashing cameras fighting to steal a shot of the tributes. 

We are quickly shuffled into a large building; that’s all I know at least.  Few things are explained thoroughly, and a troupe of Peacekeepers are always at our side. 

“Step inside,” a thick baritone Peacekeeper ordered.  His face did not express anything but power and authority.  He pointed into a room with all kinds of spectacular equipment. 

“What is this?” I ask softly, afraid at any moment he will demonstrate his authority.  There is no reason to fear that, though.  That’s what the Hunger Games are for in the first place. 

“This is your prep room.  You don’t have an assigned prep team like the others.  The capitol had to appoint some.  Don’t get comfortable.”  The door slams shut behind me before I get a chance to look back at him.  A clang of metal gears suggests the door has just been locked. 

I wait patiently, and scope around the room.  There is what looks like a table in the middle of the room, furnished with a mattress.   Off to the side is a similarly elevated bath tub.  There’s plenty of tools and gadgets that I can’t imagine what they are used for.  I have a feeling I don’t want to know. 

A door, I didn’t know existed, shoots open.  Four, maybe five ridiculously dressed people saunter in with their Capitol talk, and condescending language toward me.  I don’t pay much attention as they order me to strip naked; this makes me extremely uncomfortable.  But even when I’m naked, I still don’t look nearly as ridiculous as they do in their bright colored clothes and hair, painted skin, artificial modifications.

“Poor boy,” one says. 

Another pokes my chest and shoulders, “Oh, these are real.  I could have sworn they were silicone.  See?”  He points to his shoulders, tapping them with his hand he has balled in a fist.  His shoulder is solid, as if he carried sacks of flour on a daily basis.  “Silicone shoulder implant.  I could have sworn you had the same procedure.  I am not quite used to the savage ways they come by naturally.” 

“Do you mean like exercise? Work?”  I ask unsure as to what he means. 

“Precisely.  I can’t stand it.  It may make my shoulders big, but it makes a mess of my complexion.”  The others nod in agreement, and sympathetically sigh for the troubles of this poor rich Capitol pig. 

I wonder what it must be like to not have to work.  To not think of your next meal as uncertain, or unforeseeable.  It must be a boring life.  Thankfully there are the Games to spice things up for the Capitol. 

I am shaved, washed, and cleansed in every way one could imagine, on every inch of my body.  “Now wait like a good boy for your stylist!” A third orders with the tone and gravitas as Effie Trinket.  I wonder where she is during this. 

 “Who is my stylist?”  I ask.  One of the few things I say to these insects.  “Portia!  She is new.” 

I stand next to the half bed half table, completely naked.  I was instructed to remain so until Portia gave me permission to gather my dignity.  I try to be disturbed as little as possible. 

The same door shoots open.  I infer that it is automatic.  None of those frail Capitol prep’s could open a door that fast, not even Mr. Silicone Implants. 

A tall, beautiful woman walks in the room, and the door slides shut.  She is wearing a tight brown dress that ends right before her knees.  Her hair is blonde and ends at her shoulders while her skin is much that of Katniss’. Her hands are held behind her back, comfortably, as many of the Peacekeepers carry themselves, and how Gale stood during the reaping.  Her eyes are a rich blue.  She mustn’t be that old.  I mean mid-twenties or so.  In Twelve, if you make it past your thirties, you have accomplished something few people have before.

I now grow increasingly uncomfortable as a beautiful woman stands before me, and I am as naked as ever.  I try to remain unresponsive as she stands but feet from me.  She stares in my eyes, taking no notice of my nakedness.  “Hello, Mr. Mellark.”  Her voice is soft and comforting.  I remember hearing a certain tone from my mother when I was really little.  Before I grew old enough to work for myself. 

“My name is Portia.  I will be your stylist for the Seventy Fourth Annual Hunger Games.”  Her hands then immediately drop to her side, and she gives out a sigh as if she is relieved.  As if a burden has been lifted off her back. 

“Well that’s over.  All formalities are now aside, dear.”  I am more confused than anything.  I forget I am naked. 

“Peeta, I want you to know that it is my job to help you.  It is my job to make you look handsome.” 

“I don’t care about that.”  I snap back.  I can’t gracefully accept her aid.  She begins circling me the way Haymitch did on the train.  It is making me increasingly uncomfortable. 

“A good appearance will make a good impression on sponsors.  Don’t you want sponsors?”  I get the feeling the question is rhetorical. 

“What does it matter?”  Portia then stands in front of me, and offers a robe.  I don’t know where she got it, but I don’t hesitate to cover up myself.  “I mean, it’s pointless.” 

“Why is that so?”  She asks me in the same gentle tone.  I really don’t have a satisfactory response.  I know what will come of me is all. 

“You were given District Twelve, weren’t you?”  I ask avoiding the question.  It is a bad move, but I suspect there isn’t any harm in it. 

“This is my first year.  I hoped for this District.  My grandmother was also a stylist for this District.  I feel it will make her proud if she knew I worked where she worked.” 

I understand this.  The whole reason the Baker makes that bread I gave to Katniss is because it is an old family recipe.  The cinnamon nuts and raisins eat away the profits of selling it, though.  Mother hates when we make it. 

“My father knew someone in the Games,” I begin.  There isn’t too much to say there. 

“What was her name, if you don’t mind sharing?”  It’s the first reference a Capitol citizen, I know of, made of a tribute that suggested they were a person too.  Someone with a name, sympathy, a family, friends, someone with shame. 

“Maysilee.  That’s all I know.”  Portia nods as she has me sit down on the elevated bed.  I obey, and she absorbs every detail about my face with her hands and eyes.  She feels my skin on my neck and head, running her fingers through my hair, finding the natural way it sits on top of my head.  “Maysilee Donner.  She was a tribute from your district oh, twenty four years ago.” 

I nod, feeling the year should be more significant than I last remembered.  It must have been a particularly interesting year. 

“As you may know,” Portia begins.  “My partner, Cinna and I think that coming from District Twelve, you have to represent its core industry.”  I nod while crossing my arms.  The robe is rather short, not all of my dignity has been salvaged.  “Usually, District Twelve ends up dressing in a type of miner outfit.  Cinna has an interesting idea that I think you would like.” 

How does she know I will like it?  She doesn’t know me.  As much as I want to protest, I remember Haymitch’s strict instructions he has given both me and Katniss.  I have to fulfil my half of the bargain if I expect Haymitch to uphold his.  Then again, what does it matter?  No matter what he seemingly does, his tributes have all ended up dead.  It’s not me I am worried about, it’s Katniss. 

“What exactly will I be wearing?”  I ask cautiously.  The answer could be either really good or really bad. 

“You will find out when you are reunited with Katniss.”  Portia places a comforting hand on my shoulder.  “I look forward to working with you, Peeta.”  Just like that, the powered door swooshes open, Portia disappears. 

The same prep team returns with what I assume is my costume for the opening ceremonies.  It must be a state of the art outfit if I am to be surprised with Katniss as to what exactly it will show, or do. 

My arms remain crossed as Shoulders presents the black jumpsuit with a cape.  I might as well call him that.  They haven’t offered any names to call them.  I feel it with my fingers.  Shoulders drops the costume which is now being held by my thumb and fingers, lightly rubbing the fabric, feeling the soft texture.  It is like the layer of crust when a loaf is freshly pulled out of the smoldering oven.  Shiny, glazed, and absolutely smooth.  Much like that white shirt I wore before Haymitch puked that night on the train. 

I don’t want to admit I like it.  The costume has a cape with streaks of fire on the back.  “Well, put it on!”  The woman who reminds me all too much of Effie orders. 

Again, I am naked, and managing to make my way inside the black jumpsuit.  .  It zips in the back, but I have to slide my head through the tight neck piece.  Apparently it was tailored that way on purpose. 

I slide on matching leather boots that appear to be a perfect fit.  I never knew what a well fit shoe feels like.  Besides that, it feels more like a tight sock than anything else.  Light as a feather. 

“Take a look,” Shoulders demands as he waves me over to another mirror.  This one is much like the one on the train. 

They don’t style my hair too much.  If I remember correctly, they want my face to look like what I looked like during the reaping so the Capitol citizens will be able to better recognize me. 

I look phenomenal, I admit.  I didn’t believe I would complement anything these people ever did, but I must say, it is perfect.  

Portia escorts me to where final preparations for the opening ceremonies will take place.  She is exceedingly friendly, rubbing my shoulder in a soothing way whenever she speaks to me the way you would expect from a parent.  I think she knows how I feel about the appointed prep team.  Every time they come within speaking distance, Portia finds an excuse to shuffle them off in a different direction. 

I meet Katniss and Cinna, her stylist on the way.  Katniss is in a similar getup.  She is absolutely beautiful.  I can tell Cinna wanted Katniss to be recognizable; he used minimal makeup, and she is wearing the same hair style from the reaping. 

She _is_ absolutely beautiful. 

“Now Peeta,” Portia runs her fingers over my shoulders, and I face her in response.  “You are not afraid of fire are you?”  I am a baker.  I know about ovens, I have felt heat in excess countless times. 

“Am I supposed to be?”  Portia smiles slightly. 

“Cinna and I created a type of synthetic fire for the opening ceremonies.  It looks like the real thing, but it isn’t.  You needn’t worry.”  I don’t understand.  She makes it seem like she is asking my permission to light me on fire. 

“Will I be on fire or something?” I can’t help but joke.  I smile, but she doesn’t. 

“Yes.” 

In that instant, we are joined with Cinna and Katniss. 

At the bottom of this building, it is a giant stable where all the tributes are preparing to enter their carriages for the opening ceremonies.  I just now understand how unusual our costumes are, and Katniss’ appearance.  I know from the previous Games, tributes have always been made up in the most flamboyant of costumes to represent their Districts.  Ours is simple, elegant, and appealing.  Katniss’ appearance is mostly unusual considering all the other girls are wearing a quantity of makeup most comparable with Effie’s. 

 We stand for a long time in the carriage assigned to us.  Portia and Cinna have long since left to collect the fire after they arranged our exact positions. 

“What do you think?  About the fire?”  Katniss looks my direction after a long pause.  In the distance, I overhear many conversations.  Mostly surrounding what I would consider to be petty and foolish trifles.  “I’ll rip off your cape if you’ll rip off mine.”  I try to express a false nervousness.  I really could care less about the fire.  If it is as harmless as Portia made it seem, this should be nothing.  Burns don’t hurt me too bad anymore. 

“Deal,” Katniss whispers.  “I know we promised Haymitch we’d do exactly what they said, but I don’t think he considered this angle.”  I can tell she is nervous.  I guess when she is nervous she talks.  This is probably the most we have ever spoken. 

“Where is Haymitch, anyway?  Isn’t he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?”  I ask. 

“With all that alcohol in him, it’s probably not advisable to have him around an open flame.”  She gins while she says that.  Her grey eyes look up in mine.

Her wit sends me into laughter.  By the look in her grey eyes, she probably didn’t expect it.  She laughs too.  What else can you do when you are being shown off right before slaughter?  When everyone around you is bidding and betting on your fate, what can you do but laugh?  

 In that instant, the doors to the stables fly open, and reveal the enormous crowd on both sides of the street that leads us to our destination.  The Capitol Circle.  After the opening ceremonies, the tributes are escorted into the training center, where we will live out the rest of our luxurious lives.

The tributes’ carriages are organized numerically with District One leading, and District Twelve at the rear.  We have time before we will be seen.  Not too much time. 

Cinna casually approaches our carriage with a lit torch with the synthetic fire, I hope.  Portia is nowhere to be seen unfortunately.  Cinna reminds me of her.  He is very soft spoken and kind.

“Here we go then,” he says casually.  Our capes are lit with the stuff, and for a moment, I forget it is fake.  I feel the terror rise inside of me.  Before my costume is completely consumed, I remember that this would be no way to die.  Considering the Games. 

“It works.”  Cinna says with a relief.  He has a look in his eyes that he either doubted it would work, or he was unsure the fire was indeed the synthetic and not real.  It sure as hell looks convincing. 

“Remember, heads high.  Smiles.  They are going to love you!”  Cinna jumps off right as we start moving.  I notice Katniss, and I could not believe my eyes.  She is frightening, and inspiring.  Beautiful, and powerful all at the same time.  It takes me a moment for her question to register, I think I am swooning because I almost fall off the carriage altogether.  “What’s he saying?”  Katniss interrupts. 

Cinna yelled unintelligibly, but I read lips well enough to get what he wanted us to do.  “I think he said for us to hold hands.”  I take her right hand, and we both give Cinna an expression of uncertainty.  He nods giving the familiar thumbs up that we are doing as he commanded. 

I feel as if I am a force to be reckoned with as I see sparks of flame dance across my chest, and the reaction of the crowd.  Indeed I am.  I don’t smile. 

The crowd cannot get enough of us.  Our appearance is one no one has ever seen a tribute make before.  The credit is to Cinna and Portia. 

Katniss has very weak balance, and I do my best to compensate for her.  She never lets go of my hand, and with every bump from the carriage we stand in, she grips tighter out of fear she will fall. 

She does eat up this attention as she smiles and waves to the crowd.  I make out a smile near the end of the ride.  I can’t help it, but it is a very good experience. 

In all this excitement, I can only remember that girl sitting in the mud outside the bakery.  I remember how vulnerable she was.  How entirely helpless she was.  How couldn’t I have given her the bread?  How couldn’t I have done everything in my power to make sure she wouldn’t starve?  I couldn’t let that happen. 

I am at her mercy in a way.  If she wasn’t hungry, if she didn’t so desperately need something to eat, she would be just another girl to me.  One I was going off to die with.  She is not. 

That haunting melody I remember the mockingjays sing is playing over and over in my head.  The lyrics probably will never come back to mind.  I wish I knew that song.  I wish I spoke to her.  I wish I wasn’t going to die. 

Now, all that is left of me is the hope that she will have a future.  With the most favorable of fortunes she can survive this.  Maybe my mother was right.  Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. 

We approach the end of our journey, President Snow’s mansion.  It is a huge marvelous thing.  It, in all its size and glory, could easily be larger than all the structures back home combined. 

Katniss lets go as we slow down.  “No, don’t let go of me, please.  I might fall out of this thing.”  I say with a smile, hoping she doesn’t let go. 

“Okay,” she smiles.  I can’t get enough of it. 

It is a conundrum really.  I am sad I will die, but above all, I am happy I am with her.  I wouldn’t take my old life back if I had the choice.  There was nothing there for me anyway.  This is what I wanted.  The little time I will spend with her will fill me with enough happiness to last a lifetime. 

From the balcony of the mansion, President Snow gives the official welcome to the tributes.  I remember him from televised events, but in person, he seems so much smaller.  His hair is still that familiar flour white. 

We are the sight of the Capitol tonight.  I notice on surrounding screens that we are.  In the darkness, we offer light to everyone in attendance.  Even some tributes can’t stop staring.  I hate being in the spotlight, but I guess it is necessary. 

The national anthem plays to conclude the welcome, and all the carriages are led around the Capitol Circle, and into the training building. 

Katniss reclaims her hand.  It is probably for the best because she gripped mine with such a force, my hand fell asleep.  I try to rub out the pins and needles, as does she.  “Thanks for keeping hold of me,” I say.  “I was getting a little shaky there.”  “It didn’t show,” she assures me.  I appreciate it.  “I’m sure no one noticed.” 

“I am sure they didn’t notice anything but you.  You should wear flames more often, they suit you.”  It feels strange complimenting her like that, but what else can I say?  I don’t mean to objectify her, I guess.  I think she is the most beautiful girl in the world?  I loved her since I was five?  No, all I can do is smile into those beautiful grey eyes, hoping it communicates just that to her.  And just as if she read my thoughts, she returned my smile, stood up on her toes, and planted a soft kiss on my cheek. 

Hopefully I don’t blush too much. 


	6. Chapter 6

She does have a very lovely smile.  I don’t know if she notices, but she smiles to me often.  Maybe she feels sorry for me.  Maybe she has empathy, who knows? 

All I do when I get back We get the penthouse of the training building.  It is very nice, more so than the train.  We are on floor twelve for our district.  With everything to admire, I can’t help but count how many dead people slept where I will sleep. 

Effie manages to have something to say about everything.  I am sure she would be pleasant company if she was from District Twelve.  I would have liked to have known her.  Her bubbly personality may have been better utilized back in Twelve.  The Capitol poisoned her. 

“What a busy day it has been,” Effie begins.  “I spent all day talking you up to sponsors.  I’ve been very mysterious, though.”  Her expression shifts to annoyance as she brings up our mentor.  I haven’t seen him since the train.  I hope he is honoring his side of the deal. 

“Because, of course, Haymitch hasn’t bothered to tell me your strategies.  But I’ve done my best with what I had to work with.  How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister.  How you’ve both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district.” 

I am beginning to get used to Effie, and whatever world she must live in.  Her view of barbarism is very different from mine.  What she would define as ‘proper,’ or ‘civil,’ I would describe as ‘barbaric,’ and ‘monstrous’ respectively.

“Everyone has their reservations, naturally.  You being from the coal district.  But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, ‘Well, if you put enough pressure on coal, it turns to pearls!’”

I can’t help but express my congratulations to her wit in the most sarcastic way I possibly can.  Slow clap.  I start, and Katniss follows my lead.  The funny part is Effie is oblivious to our joke.  

I thinks Effie meant to say that coal would turn into a diamond, which I don’t even know is true or not to begin with.  I’m only a baker, I don’t profess to know any more than Effie does about anything.  I just don’t think I know what I don’t know. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t seal the sponsor deals for you.  Only Haymitch can do that.”  Haymitch.  I wonder where he is?  “But don’t worry, I’ll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary.”  Effie is like the opposite of Portia.  She isn’t intelligent, friendly, charming, or enjoyable to be with.  I really hope this makes her happy.  At least she’ll have that going for her. 

I see my room, finally.  It is much like the one on the train.  There are mirrors everywhere.  Appearance is probably the most important thing in the Capitol.  Everything revolves around it.  Here, if you don’t look the part, assumptions are made whether right or wrong.  Mirrors are a necessary tool.  Everyone must have one. 

I wonder if this is the exact room Haymitch slept during his time here as a tribute.  It is a haunting thought to think of all the people who never made it home.  For too many people, this was their last bed.  This was where they spent their last nights.  My last nights. 

My reflection in the mirror haunts me.  It reminds me who I either am, or who I used to be.  I can’t help but hate myself a little.  Change, it’s the most frightening thing in this world.  Hate how I have acted since I came to the Capitol, hate that this is how I finally met the girl with the braids, and hate Peeta Mellark for leaving me here.  I am a shell, a reflection of him. 

Before I know it, I send the hardest, heaviest object I could find in the middle of the mirror.  The crash shocks me, and makes me cry out in surprise.  “Peeta?”  I hear Portia call from outside the door.  Knocking twice, entering.  She rushes in to find me on the floor weeping in self-loathing.  Much like how Haymitch and I spent our first few minutes together. 

Portia very gently places her hand on my back as I watch my tears flood the carpet.  “I can’t pretend to know what this is like, Peeta.”  That familiar motherly caress.  “I don’t think you would ever think of me as a friend, but I am a good listener.  Sometimes, when I am sad, it helps to talk.” 

I look up to see a very concerned Portia kneeling on her left knee next to me.  She hands me an off white handkerchief which I drench as I wipe my eyes clean. 

“I don’t know what to say.”  I whimper as I sit at the base of a huge bed, on the floor.  Portia scoots next to me. 

“Say how you feel.”  I try not to make eye contact with her.  Since the reaping, I can’t remember the last time I cried, now it seems to be habitual. 

“I gave up,” I begin.  “I gave up the moment I heard my name.  I don’t know how else to put it.  I don’t want to win.”  We sit in near silence for some time.  That melody keeps haunting me.  I think ever since I saw Katniss’ pin, the tune the mockingjays would sing rings harder and harder in my head.  I begin to recognize it though.  The tune provokes a question almost.  _“Are you?  Are you?”_ It’s from my childhood.  I haven’t thought of it in ages.

“Portia, do you listen to music?”  I ask making attempt to change the subject. 

“Sometimes.  It is an escape for me.” 

“Do you recognize this?”  I hum the melody twice, and Portia listens intently.  It is the first time I heard it aloud in a long time.  It feels almost wrong to even hum the tune, I remember the lyrics to be shocking. 

“It sounds familiar, but I don’t know it.  Maybe it originated in your district?”  I don’t know.  Perhaps I’ll never know. 

“Portia, is everything okay?”  Cinna knocks at my door.  I stand to answer.  For the first time, I get a good look at Cinna.  His eyes really pop out; he wears gold eyeliner around his rich green eyes.  He seems friendly enough.  He may be as tall as I, but far more composed.  A gentle smile creeps on his face.  “Are you feeling well, Peeta?”  I don’t know what it is with Cinna and Portia, but they both will place a comforting hand on my shoulder.  Maybe I just am not used to physical comfort from anyone, but it seems a bit much. 

“There is nothing to be upset about,” I must be very unconvincing.  Cinna’s expression doesn’t shift, and I feel my puffy eyes.  They are probably red, and display evidence of tears. 

“Have you seen the roof, Peeta?”  I don’t expect how he could think I did.  I haven’t been here ten minutes, and already destroyed a priceless mirror.  Sad, really.  I don’t usually burst out in anger like that. 

“Come,” Portia leads the way, and I climb up a flight of stairs next to Katniss’ room.  I wonder how she is coping.  I hope she didn’t hear. 

The roof is so free.  It is as large as our entire floor.  The entire city is directly available to see.  I spin around looking here and there.  On the other side is a dome shape, right where the stairwell began.  There is a huge garden I may go see if I have time.  Cinna has his hands in his pockets, and smiles as I hopelessly try to memorize every building, edifice and landscape I can.  Portia took off her shoes.  It is probably easier to walk on her feet than in those horrendous looking shoes.  “Cinna?”  I ask.  “Why am I allowed up here?  I am a tribute.  What would stop me from jumping off the roof?”  In response, Cinna tosses a little pebble over the railing, and sure enough, it flies back.  I thought I was going crazy in that moment of disbelief. 

“It’s a safety precaution.  The whole building is surrounded in case you would even find a window or what have you.”  I nod, examining what I thought to be open space.  Somewhere between me and the city is an invisible barrier.  One that will keep me in no matter what. 

Cinna invites us both down to the balcony.  It overviews the Capitol, and is adjacent to the dining room which some strangely dressed servants prepare.  Cinna, and Portia are trying not to acknowledge their presence.  I don’t understand, and probably won’t.  They talk for a few minutes about anything.  Mostly the other tributes and their appearances at the opening ceremonies. 

I can tell they are pleased with their work.  They have every right to brag, they don’t.  They are so modest.  It is strange, I would have expected them to be like Effie.  Then again, if they were like Effie, they wouldn’t have been able to pull off such exceptional work. 

Effie makes her appearance with Katniss who appears very comfortable.  I always lose my breath a little every time I see her.  We sit at the table.  I sit next to Portia, and Katniss next to Cinna.  Katniss and Cinna face Portia and me.  Effie takes a seat at one of the ends, reserving the other for Haymitch, whenever he decides to come. 

One of the servants offers us wine, and I accept.  I remember drinking before.  This nasty stuff I once bought from the Hob back home.  It looked like water, and I had to tell the seller it was for cleaning.  I would use it to clean some injuries from the oven and from being hit.  Once, and open wound on my face got infected, and it was horrible.  I remember hearing that alcohol would clean wounds, I didn’t know how bad it hurts.  It smelled gross, and tasted horrible.  I only had a couple of sips out of curiosity. 

The wine is nothing like that stuff.  It is not nearly as strong.  It is delicious, smooth.  Too rich for my taste.

Haymitch arrives just in time for dinner.  He eats this watery soup that doesn’t look appetizing.  It reminds me of Effie’s vomit green suit she wore at the reaping.  He seems sober enough, and well, graciously accepting the offer of wine from one of the servers.  

I eat a combination of mushroom soup, roast beef, greens.  It is delicious.  The wine compliments the meal.  I notice Katniss is having a difficult time metabolizing the wine.  She must be feeling the effects because she doesn’t even finish the first glass.  I am well in my second by that time.  I don’t really feel the effect of the wine, more so vocalize the effect. 

I participate in conversation with Portia, Cinna, and Effie.  Haymitch offers a few words every now and then.  It mostly revolves around the opening ceremonies.  Portia, and Cinna are very modest.  Too modest if you ask me.  They should take some credit for our appearance. 

Dinner concludes, and one of the servers lays a huge cake, beautifully decorated on the table.  It is marvelous.  I am sure I could recreate it, but the intricate designs, lacing, piping, and color was all outside my imagination.  I would have never come up with anything like it on my own.  The server lights the cake on fire, to my surprise.  I would have definitely never thought of doing that.  The only thing I know of that would have made that possible would have been that nasty alcohol I bought from the Hob.  I would never taint a cake with that, even if it would have burned off.  I would be too afraid it would affect the integrity of the flavor. 

“What makes it burn?”  Katniss blurts out in an inebriated tone.  It almost makes me laugh because I never thought I would hear that.  “Is it alcohol?  That’s the last thing I wa- oh!  I know you!”  Katniss nearly yells.  She points at the server who is a girl maybe our age.  She has thick red hair.  Cinna places his hand on her shoulder in attempt to calm Katniss.  Portia tried to explain away any recognition Katniss may have. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss.  How could you possibly know an avox?”  Effie blurts.  Avox?  I never heard this before.  I assume it is something unspeakable in the Capitol.  Someone who was shunned, or penalized.  “The very thought.”

“What’s an avox?”  I see it in Katniss’ eyes.  She knows she has done something horrible that may endanger her odds further.  I see the fear in her eyes.  She looks to me.  I rub my chin.

“Someone who committed a crime.  They cut her tongue so she can’t speak.  She’s probably a traitor of some sort.  Not likely you’d know her.”  Haymitch explains carefully, and everyone around the table is concerned for Katniss.  She knows a traitor.  What could this mean for her?  Who was the avox to her?  This is too dangerous. 

“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to one of them unless it’s to give an order.”  Effie continues.  “Of course you don’t _really_ know her.”  Effie makes this point very clear.  Katniss doesn’t know an avox.  She can’t. 

I decide then, I have to do something.  I admitted to Portia, I have given up on myself.  I have too much regret to only give myself more.  If I can’t live, she must.  From now on, I will protect Katniss. 

“No, I guess not, I just…”

“Delly Cartwright!” I yell very audibly.  Everyone’s attention shifts to me, and away from Katniss as I intended and hoped.

Delly Cartwright doesn’t have red hair.  In fact, she looks nothing like the avox Katniss very well may know.  Hopefully Katniss has enough sense to agree with me that she _was_ indeed thinking of Delly Cartwright. 

“That’s who it is.  I kept thinking she looked familiar as well.  Then I realized she’s a dead ringer for Delly.”  I take an awkward sip of my wine.  Katniss is confused, and I lift an eyebrow as if to spell out exactly what I was doing.  _I am saving you, Katniss.  Just go along with it._

“Of course, that’s who I was thinking of.  It must be the hair.”  She says nervously.  Laughing awkwardly through her teeth. 

“Something about the eyes, too.”  I add.  I am pleased with her response.  I hope it sells. 

Cinna appears to be ahead of me.  He gives me a blank stare.  “Oh, well.  If that’s all it is.  And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off.  I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut.”

The cake was much better than anything I have ever made.  The Capitol food, in general, is so much fuller in flavor.  The sweets more sweeter.  The bread, thicker.  Everything is so much more than I even imagined. 

We watch the ceremonies on a screen in a living room.  Everyone loves our appearance.  It is truly amazing what Cinna and Portia have done. 

I just can’t help but be disgusted.  Not at anything, but myself.  That is not me there.  I didn’t even recognize me at first glance.  The way I was waving to everyone, smiling, it was not me.  That is someone else.  Already, Peeta Mellark has faded away in the spotlight.  The broken mirror flashes in my mind. 

“Whose idea was the hand holding?”  Haymitch breaks my concentration. 

Portia replies, “Cinna’s.” 

“Just the perfect touch of rebellion, very nice.”  I don’t know exactly what Haymitch meant by that.  It is a little unsettling with Katniss, just earlier, recognizing someone who very well could have been rebellious.  I feel like I deserve to know.  After all, I do.  Where would she be if I didn’t suggest she was confused? 

The hand holding is a bit strange.  No tribute has ever done such a thing.  Rebellious, I am not sure. 

After the ceremony concludes, Cinna and Portia prepare to retire.  Portia gives me a gentle hug and squeeze.  I begin to crave her physical affection.  She tries to hug Katniss as well, but she knows how valuable her space is to her.  Cinna shakes my hand as if I were a colleague.  Very professional. 

Haymitch lingers to explain the upcoming day.  “Tomorrow morning is the first training session.  Meet me for breakfast, and I’ll tell you exactly how I want you to play it.”  Everything we do is carefully examined.  Maybe it is for the best we are advised on everything we do.  “Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk.” 

Haymitch rejoins Cinna and Portia for who knows what.  I obediently head back to my room, but first, one quick stop.  Our rooms are next to each other so it’s not strange that we walk together.  The walls must be thick if Katniss couldn’t hear the crash of that mirror.  Maybe she was doing something else, like showering.  That could have drown out the noise. 

I lean against the door with my arms crossed.  I can tell she doesn’t expect this.  Perhaps she is still dizzy from the wine.  “So, Delly Cartwright.  Imagine finding her lookalike here.”  I say hoping she gets the hint.  Maybe the alcohol will give her honesty.  She stands there looking into my eyes.  My breath escapes me again, and she looks down at her feet. 

“Have you been on the roof yet?”  I ask hoping she will understand the innuendo.  “Cinna showed me.  You can practically see the whole city.  The wind’s a bit loud, though.”  I try to make it obvious.  If she doesn’t get that, she won’t get a thing. 

“Can we just go up?”  She probably didn’t understand, but that doesn’t matter.  “Sure, come on.”  I lead her to that familiar stairwell.  We climb up to a completely different view of the city than what I saw earlier.  Before, the sun was still up.  Now, it is completely dark, but the city is still booming with life.  Celebrating the Seventy-Fourth Games. 

“I asked Cinna why they let us up here.  Weren’t they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?”  We are looking over the closest rail to the stairwell we entered from.  Katniss appears to be intrigued. 

“What’d he say?”  She asks me curiously.  I suspect she could have been thinking about jumping herself, but that is ridiculous. 

“You can’t,” I say.  Maybe I do this to impress Katniss, I could have simply tossed a similar pebble into the force field, but instead I decide to touch it with my own hand.  I have no idea what it will feel like.  It’s stupid really. 

There is a loud pop, and I even see smoke.  To my surprise, there is little pain.  “Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof.”  “Always worried about our safety,” Katniss chuckles.  I understand her.  Don’t want us to get hurt before we kill each other.

“Do you think they are watching us now?”  She asks.  There is a hint to her voice that suggests concern, maybe for her outburst about the avox at the table.  “Maybe,” I don’t know.  “Come see the garden.” 

The smell of living plants reminds me too much of home.  The smells are very different, but the atmosphere of being around plants and wild things is much like home.  I look up into the dome hoping to catch a glimpse of a mockingjay in flight, there are none. 

Katniss takes my hand as I am looking up.  She pulls me into look at a flower, and begins whispering.  “We were hunting in the woods one day.  Hidden, waiting for game,” she explains.  I point at nothing on the flower knowing what angle she is playing. 

“And your father?” 

“No, my friend Gale.”  Gale, I wonder how he is doing.  She probably doesn’t know I know him as well as I do.  This doesn’t matter. 

Back home, they are inseparable.  I assume they are either dating, or will eventually marry regardless.  They are fast friends.  Gale will hunt with her, and based on what I observe, they share everything.  He will sell squirrels and rabbits she shoots. 

“Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once.  Except one.  As if it were giving a warning call.  And then we saw her.  I am sure it was the same girl.  A boy was with her.  Their clothes were tattered.  They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep.  They were running as if their lives depended on it.” 

She stops for a moment, and I know she is probably regretting saying this aloud.  At least I know it is nothing more than her place and timing.  She didn’t _know_ a traitor. 

“The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere, I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there.  It didn’t make a sound, but they saw it.  A net dropped on the girl, and carried her up, fast, so fast like an elevator.  They shot some sort of spear through the boy.  It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well.  But I’m certain he was dead.  We heard the girl scream once.  The boy’s name, I think.  Then it was gone, the hovercraft.  Vanished into thin air.  And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened.” 

The story made me shiver.  “Did they see you?” 

“I don’t know.  We were under a shelf of rock.”  I can’t imagine what it must be like to watch someone die.  The image of seeing someone so helpless in front of you.  If it were me, I would have run out to try to help them, and probably die in the process.  Or worse, be an avox myself. 

“You’re shivering.”  I tell her.  I am wearing a jacket, so I decide to take it off, and put it over her shoulders in the most gentlemanly way I can think of.  She accepts gratefully.  “They were from here?”  I ask.  I fasten the top button around her neck.  “Where do you suppose they were going?”  I continue, not knowing where I am going with this.  I just want to prolong our stay. 

“I don’t know that, or why they would leave here.”  She says.

There is nothing past District Twelve.  Only the ruins of District Thirteen which was obliterated in the war.  It is said that District Thirteen is inhabitable due to radiation that lingered from whatever weapons the Capitol used on them.  Whatever.  That place would be more of a refuge abandoned than any District would be in Panem.

“I’d leave here,” I say a bit too loud for both our comfort.  I try to save myself assuming someone is listening.  “I’d go home now if they let me.  But you have to admit, the food’s prime.”  It is a very fake comment.  I don’t like enjoying the food here, because all I can think of is starving children.  Katniss in the rain.  That’s what comes to mind whenever I find myself sniffing in the air at the luxury no one could afford back home. 

“It’s getting chilly.  We better go in.”  I wait a bit to further probe Katniss. 

“Your friend Gale.  He’s the one who took your sister away at the reaping?”  I ask.  Her face lights up at the mention of Gale. 

“Yes.  Do you know him?”  I do kind of.  Katniss doesn’t know that.  I figure it won’t hurt to tell a little lie. 

“Not really.  I hear the girls talk about him a lot.  I thought he was your cousin or something.  You favor each other.”  I wonder how that makes her feel.  I know there is no future for us, but maybe if I know that she liked Gale, it would reinforce reality.  There is no future for us. 

“No, we’re not related,” she confirms what I know.  There is nothing I can gather from that. 

“Did he come say goodbye to you?”  I ask.  He probably did.  There is nothing else I would care to know. 

“Yes.  So did your father.  He brought me cookies.” 

What?  That is strange.  I never asked him to do that.  I never would have guessed that is where he would go after saying his last goodbyes to me.  He does like Katniss.  We buy her game whenever we can.  I guess it’s not that farfetched he would visit her. 

“Really?  Well, he likes you and your sister.  I think he wished he had a daughter instead of a house full of boys.”  It’s true.  He would have liked that.  I suspected this ever since that day when I was five, and he first pointed her out to me, the girl with the braids.  He almost married her mother. 

“He knew your mother when they were kids.” 

“Oh, yes.  She grew up in town.” 

We are back at our bedroom doors.  “See you in the morning then.”  Katniss hands back my jacket, and I graciously accept it. 

“See you,” I add. 

to my room is find an identical mirror in the place of the one I broke.  I still can’t bear that reflection. 

I take it, and exit the room with the intention to throw it on the roof.  It must be more expensive than the entire bakery, but I don’t care. 

To my surprise, as soon as I open my door, the red headed avox is there.  She gives me a startled look, and glances at the mirror.  I see the terror in her eyes.  I wonder if that is the very expression she had when she saw the hovercraft that day. 

“I am sorry, I don’t want this.”  I hand her the mirror.  She looks confused, and I slam the door. 

I feel awful.  I consider what I just did to be very rude and inexcusable.  I try to sleep tonight.  There are only nightmares.  Katniss being murdered in front of me.  Only tears. 


	7. Chapter 7

I am woken by Effie knocking at my door.  I am relieved, I was enduring another way my subconscious pictured Katniss dying.  I do my best to sit on the edge of the bed, and yell in acknowledgment to Effie.  “I’m up!”  I yell very annoyed.  My neck hurts, I rub the back of it with my left hand, staring at my feet against the plush blue carpet.  She is too much, even for me sometimes. 

I need a shower badly.  This one is similar to the one on the train, so it only takes me so long to figure out how to turn it on.  It has far more options, and, through trial and error, I clean myself with the contraption.  There is an outfit laid out for me by the time I get back to the room.  A wine colored long sleeved tunic, black pants, and light leather boots.  Like everything else, it magically fits. 

I meet Haymitch in the dining area.  He nods to me.  I can tell he is craving a drink, and the color of the shirt doesn’t help.  Katniss enters as well, we exchange our “good morning’s” and eat a generous amount of food. 

We get to meet the other tributes today, which I expect to be interesting to say the least.

The three training sessions all the tributes have together are where other tributes meet, scope each other out, and most importantly, form alliances.  Something I may do if asked.  I doubt anyone will. 

Haymitch is near finished with his food.  His body language suggests he is about to speak.  “So let’s get down to business.  Training.  First off, if you like, I’ll coach you separately.  Decide now.” 

“Why would you coach us separately?”  Katniss asks. 

“Say you have a secret skill you don’t want the other to know about.”  Haymitch is all too familiar with this process.  I already know Katniss’ abilities.  She is good with knives, and especially the bow.  Katniss looks to me.  She understands that her abilities are not a secret to me. 

“I don’t have any secret skills.” 

“And I already know what yours is, right?  I mean, I’ve eaten enough of your squirrels.”  It is true.  Her head tilts, and brow furrows as if she didn’t know that I ate her game.  Is this news to her?

“You can coach us together,” she decided.  I agree. 

Haymitch points to me.  “All right, so give me some idea of what you can do.”  He takes a sip of coffee, and I don’t know how to answer. 

“I can’t do anything,” I admit.  “Unless you count baking bread.” 

“Sorry, I don’t.”  Haymitch turns to Katniss, “Katniss.  I already know you’re handy with a knife,” 

“Not really.  But I can hunt.”  She is just being modest, I saw her throw that knife.  “With a bow and arrow.” 

“And you’re good?”  Haymitch asks.  I already know that answer.  “I’m all right.”

“She’s excellent, my father buys her squirrels.”  I can at least make her sound amazing.  Improve the likelihood of Haymitch favoring her over me when it comes to sponsors.  “He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body.  She hits every one in the eye.  It’s the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher.  She can even bring down deer.”  I only know this because I once saw her and Gale hauling one through the Hob while I was toting flour back to the bakery.  They didn’t notice me.

“What are you doing?”  She asks as if I insult her ability rather than compliment it. 

“What are _you_ doing?”  I ask equally confused.  “If he’s going to help you, he has to know what you’re capable of.  Don’t underrate yourself.”  I say. 

“What about you?  I’ve seen you in the market.  You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour.”  She lingers on that last bit as if she is showing me what I am doing.  I don’t like this at all.  I am trying to help her.  I am trying to keep her alive. 

“Tell him that.  That’s not nothing.” 

“Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people.  It’s not like being able to use a weapon.  You know it isn’t.”  I can tell I am too fast for her to retaliate effectively.  It is true all the same.  I am unskilled compared to Katniss.  She is a hunter.  She will have every opportunity to win. 

“He can wrestle.  He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother.”  Funny she remembered that.  Why does she?  She didn’t know me, probably didn’t know I existed.  I doubt she even remembered the damn bread.  Her persistence is annoying.  Why can’t she admit she is superior?  I thought it would be easy to talk her up to Haymitch. 

“What use is that?  How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?”  And then it comes to me.  When I was against Gale, she was right there beside him.  When I beat Gale, a much larger, and superior fighter in general, she had this look on her face.  This look I’ll never forget.  Respect. 

“There’s always hand-to-hand combat.  All you need to come up with is a knife, and you’ll at least stand a chance.  If I get jumped, I’m dead!”  She is just as, if not more angry with me. 

“But you won’t!”  My voice is equally elevated now.  “You’ll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows.” 

What I say next is something I never planned to tell anyone ever.  It may just be anger, but I have to.  “You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner.  Then I realized, she didn’t mean me, she meant you!”  It is true.  My mother said that, and I feel the sofa I sat in as I hear those words.  I smell the stuffy Justice Building.  I feel her strong hand on my cheek.

“Oh, she meant you.”  Katniss expresses extreme discomfort as she considers that there may be truth to my words. 

To confirm, “She said, ‘She’s a survivor, that one.’ _She_ is,” I finish. 

For a long while, the only sound is Haymitch’s slurps from his coffee.  Katniss’ voice is extremely vulnerable.  “But only because someone helped me.” 

I see she is crumbling a roll in her hand, and I know that she does remember that night.  All of the sudden, I smell cinnamon and raisons. 

“People will help you in the arena.  They’ll be tripping over each other to sponsor you.”  I continue my speech.  I don’t mean it anymore.  I know where she is coming from.  She doesn’t want to be special.  She just want her life back.  I get that. 

“No more than you.” 

I can’t take her anymore.  “She has no idea.  The effect she can have,” I explain to Haymitch.  All I see is the entire district, including myself, saluting Katniss Everdeen on those steps.  I remember the effect she had on me then, and the effect she had on me that night inside that bakery.  I didn’t plan to give her bread, I didn’t plan to salute her even when she volunteered.  Both occasions, there was something there.  She is special.  She could be a leader.  She could reduce one to tears and excite one to war, that Katniss Everdeen.  She could make the most hopeless feel like warriors.

I stare down at the table running my finger along the smooth surface.  It is so smooth, I make out my own face. 

It is true.  Everyone liked her.  They may not have told her.

“Well, then.  Well, well, well.  Katniss, there’s no guarantee there’ll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do.  Until then, stay clear of archery.”  He is very calculating and doesn’t seem to care about our argument.  His priority is giving us the best chance of survival.  That’s his job after all. 

“Are you any good at trapping?”  He asks Katniss.  I would assume so, often times game will have a mark around its neck suggesting it was strangled by some kind of snare.  “I know a few basic snares,” she answers.  “That may be significant in terms of food.” 

He turns to me with a pickled finger.  It must be habit by now, after consuming all those drinks for so long.  “And, Peeta, she’s right, never underestimate strength in the arena.  Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player.” 

I remember watching Haymitch’s Games now for some reason.  The last contender, besides him, was a large strong girl.  She was just as large as that boy from District Two.  Frightening really.  The only thing that saved Haymitch was knowing how to use a force field at the base of a cliff as a weapon.  It was much like the field on the roof.  It would reverberate anything you threw at it back.  Just as Cinna tossed a pebble into the field, Haymitch threw a weapon. 

“In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don’t reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes.  The plan’s the same for both of you.  You go to group training.  Spend the time trying to learn something you don’t know.  Throw a spear.  Swing a mace.  Learn to tie a decent knot.  Save showing what you’re best at until your private sessions.  Are we clear?”  I nod, as does Katniss. 

“One last thing,” Haymitch adds.  “In public, I want you by each other’s side every minute.”  I shake my head at this.  I am in no mood to be with Katniss, even if I am obsessed with her.  I can admire her from a distance.  Katniss agrees, I can tell she needs a break from me after our discussion.  I was only trying to help her. 

Haymitch slams his hand on the table.  The plates and glasses clang, and my head rings.  “Every minute!  It’s not open for discussion!  You agreed to do as I said!  You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other.  Now get out.  Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training.” 

Katniss is the first to leave.  I hear her bedroom door slam.  It aggravates me she is this way.  She is so stubborn.  So what if she has the better chance?  That is what I want.  That is the reality.  I am only trying to help. 

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be in her shoes.  She has been feeding her family, with great success, for years.  She has a good friend, Gale, and probably even a future back home.  She has every reason to try to survive. 

I notice another mirror I don’t want in my room.  It is smaller, and above a dresser.  I hate mirrors. 

I walk it out to the living room, looking for a place to put it, when I see Haymitch standing over an open bar near the entrance to the kitchen.  “I told you to leave.”  His voice is strained and refused to make eye contact with me. 

“I did, I just wanted to return a mirror from my room.”  Haymitch pours a tall glass of this brown liquid.  He fills the clear glass most of the way leaving only about a finger width of free space at the top.  He really drinks a lot. 

I place the mirror on the couch, and Haymitch turns to me.  His eyes are red.  He takes a generous swig from the glass.  “I know what you are trying to do, Peeta.”  Haymitch takes a seat in a chair.  “I would do the same.”  He sits, enjoying every drop from the glass.  I sit next to the mirror on the couch.  I don’t know exactly what to say. 

“I still don’t know a thing about you, Peeta.  Katniss is a huntress.  She volunteered to save her sister.  She has a family she loves.  But you,” he points that pickled finger again.  It makes me uncomfortable.  He isn’t a bit subtle about his questioning.  “You are a mystery.  Why did you tell me those things this morning?” 

“She wasn’t helping herself by keeping anything secret from you, is all.” 

“So you care about her?”  Haymitch rubs his eyes.  “Peeta, I know what this is like, really, I do.  There was a girl from my district when I was in the Games, Maysilee.”  He stands, and eyes the empty glass.  “That golden pin Katniss has, that was actually Maysilee’s.  Did you know that?” 

It must be pure coincidence that the very girl my father knew, the girl that plaques Haymitch Abernathy, and Katniss Everdeed, the girl with the braids, are all connected.  By that little pin.  “I see you in me, kid.  If you have truly given up on yourself,” Haymitch looks me directly in the eyes.  “Don’t give up on her.  I made that mistake for you.” 

“Haymitch,” I ask as he begins to walk away, “why do you drink so much?”  He chuckles a little, and grabs the same bottle he poured into the glass.  With his mouth, he pulls out the cork, spits it out on the floor, and walks back to his room.  “I never left the arena.” 

By the time ten rolls around, I find Effie Trinket standing in front of the elevator.  She never ceases to amaze me with her appearance.  “Good morning, Effie,” I greet.  She smiles very warmly at me.  “Hello, Peeta.”  We wait in silence for Katniss.  For some reason, she is always late for everything.  She’ll be late to her own funeral. 

When Katniss arrives, we ride the elevator to the floor below the bottom floor.  That is where the training center is. 

For the first time, I see all the other tributes.  They vary in size, and complexion.  All appear as nervous as we do.  Katniss and I are the only two dressed alike.  However, all the other tributes have their district number pinned to their shirt.  It takes no time for a Capitol assistant to pin the number twelve to our backs. 

All the tributes meet in the center to hear the words of the head trainer, Atala.  She gives a bit of a pep talk, and explains the day coming. 

There are many stations in the center that focus on a specific skill.  Whether it be fighting, survival skills, what have you.  An expert presides over every station. 

I wait patiently while this is all being explained by Atala.  All the other tributes, gathered in this circle, look all too normal.  There are exceptions.  The tributes from one, two, and four trained for the Games.  It is illegal to train a tribute before arriving at the center, but every year, a well-seasoned volunteer steps up to represent their district.  They are always from one, two, and four, and in twelve we call them career tributes. 

The one from two, named Cato appears to be very observant as he especially eyes the massive tribute from eleven.  I believe his name is Thresh.  The girl from eleven is this small little thing named Rue.  I can tell Katniss is reminded of Prim by her; the way she looks at Rue. 

We are set free, by Haymitch instruction, I head over to Katniss who strayed away a bit.  “Where would you like to start?”  I ask patiently.  I only hope she doesn’t take Haymitch’s order out on me by being passive aggressive. 

“Suppose we tie knots?”  She offers.  I was hoping for something else, like the camouflage section. 

“Right you are,” I chirpily say.  We spend a good while at the knot tying station.  Katniss appears to be enjoying it, and the instructor teaches Katniss a trap that will leave someone hanging from their ankle.  It looks very useful.

After tying knots, we head on over to the camouflage station.  This comes so naturally to me, as did the knot tying to Katniss.  I paint all sorts of things on my arms from mud and berry juice into beautiful disguises.  Katniss appears to enjoy watching me paint myself, and the instructor has plenty of praise for me.  “I do the cakes.”  Katniss looks up from the vines on my arms. 

“The cakes?” She asks.  From where she appeared to be looking, there was an archery station, but Haymitch ordered her to stay away from that.  “What Cakes?”

“At home.  The iced ones, for the bakery,” I answer.  I know she knows what I am talking about.  I have seen the girl with the braids standing outside the display window with Prim countless times.  I know it was mostly for Prim’s amusement, but Katniss must have appreciated my work before.  I appreciated hers.

I put the final touches on my arm.  I tried to inculcate the light from the training center into the disguise.  “It’s lovely.”  Katniss compliments.  I feel myself blushing, and I avoid her gaze.  “If only you could frost someone to death!”  Her tone is s joking one, so I play along as well. 

“Don’t be so superior.  You can never tell what you’ll find in the arena.  Say it’s actually a giant cake,” I finish.  I fear it may have been lost on Katniss, though. 

“Say we move one,” she interjects.  I wipe off the remainder of the natural ingredients from my arm. 

The other few days pass quickly.  I am glad Haymitch told us to stick together after all.  We both comment on how early the Gamemakers appear in the training center.  They have the appearance of any other Capitol citizen, but the punctuality of coal miners. 

I spend some time at various combat stations.  Katniss participates, but I have the feeling she is preoccupied with watching the girl from eleven, Rue. 

She takes an edible plant test while I start at the hand-to-hand combat station.  It is something I am a little familiar with.  Katniss was right.  I am a good wrestler.  Those skills came in handy when the instructor taught me various ways to throw an opponent by simply shifting my body weight.  I sent one of the assistants flying.  He almost landed outside of the marked off padded section.  He would have been fine; he was wearing protective gear.  “You are good,” the instructor congratulated.  “You would have been a good student in martial arts.”  Martial arts?  This is art?  Art to me is like painting, or sculpting.  Sketching or drawing.  Not fighting. 

“What is marital arts?”  I ask innocently enough. 

“It is a type of discipline.  There are many different forms of martial arts.  Many originated in a place once called Asia, Greece, and Rome.”  I nod. 

“What did I just learn?” 

“You learned techniques that originated in Greece, under that name Pankration.”  I notice Katniss is doing very well over at her station.  “It was adopted by the Romans for their sport.  It was similar to the Hunger Games.  Their fighters were called Gladiators.”  I nod soaking up information about a topic I care little about. 

We eat meals together.  Most other tributes eat alone, but in the training center, we are always together.  Katniss has a difficult time talking about anything.  I try to explain bread to her.  The different grains, flours.  In our bread basket, the servants put bread from mostly all the districts.  Katniss does her best to pay attention as I go through each piece one by one.  The green bread from District Four, the roll with seeds from eleven, ours, and the Capitol’s fluffy stuff. 

“You certainly know a lot,” she says.  It surprised me that she even was listening.  I wouldn’t blame her if she did.  Honestly, this subject bores me, I am just trying to create an illusion of friendliness. 

“Only about bread.  Okay, laugh as if I’ve said something funny.”  We laugh for a few seconds.  From my part, it is a lot of work.  “All right, I’ll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk,” I say.  I just want to learn more about her.  This is all I have now. 

“Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?”  She asks.  This startles me a bit, I could ever imagine something like this ever happening to me.  “No, but it sounds fascinating.”  This would be far more interesting than the origins of bread. 

At least Katniss has had experience running for her life.  The more experience like this she may have, the better her odds of survival. 

That’s how meals go.  A few others were like that, but Katniss has begun to trust me a bit more.  She tends to dominate conversation a little more with each passing meal.  That’s good.  I love hearing her talk. 

Rue, the girl from eleven, haunts Katniss, I have noticed.  She follows her sometimes.  For example, when we were throwing spears, I can’t help but notice that Rue is probably within speaking distance of Katniss.  “I think we have a shadow,” I tell her.  “I think her name’s Rue.”  Rue backs away as if she witnessed a crime. 

“What can we do about it?”  She asks. 

“Nothing to do, just making conversation.”  Katniss smiles very warmly at Rue. 

I noticed, this day, Katniss was wearing her gold pin.  It is a reminder to me, about Haymitch and his Games, about the Baker.  About the melody.  It makes me want to throw something, but I know I can’t let a symbol get to me. 

Meals back on District Twelve’s floor is unbearable.  Effie blabbers on about things I don’t care about.  Everything from how I did, to who was watching us, to what tribute was watching us.  “Cato from two seems to have an eye for you, Peeta, You’d better watch out.”  I can tell Katniss is not paying attention.  I wish I could be that indifferent. 

“Yea,” Haymich adds, “don’t make any deals with the careers.  They always eventually betray each other in a very undesirable way.  If anything, it would be a short term solution.  You just never know how short term.”  He finishes his meal.  I notice that Haymich, so far, has very well kept up his side of the agreement.  He will drink, but not binge. 

Katniss and I walk back to our rooms in silence.  “Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink,” I say.  Katniss laughs very cutely.  But she stops abruptly, and takes my arm. 

“Don’t.  Don’t let’s pretend when there’s no one around.” 

I am not pretending.  I genuinely like Katniss.  It hurts that she said that, and I know I can’t expect anything from her.  She knows where we stand.  I am the fool who has his head in the clouds.  That’s not her fault.  “All right, Katniss.”  I try to keep my disappointment to myself, but I could hear it in my voice. 

We only talk in front of people.  Even when we are alone, I try to smile to her, but she won’t even look at me.  _“Don’t give up on her.”_  I hear Haymitch in my head.  And I don’t. 

Private sessions are organized as the opening ceremonies were.  Numerical order with one first, and twelve last.  Ladies first, as always.  Katniss and I wait in a room with the other tributes as each number, one through twelve, is heard on the overhead along with the name of a tribute.  It is a grueling wait.  I spend most of the time looking over my hands and the scars. 

That long scar from my wrist to my elbow was caused by a falling knife.  For about a week before that, the Baker begged my mother that she buy another rack.  This one was giving out.  The way the knives hung from the ceiling like that was beyond dangerous.  In the winter, falling icicles kill people, and imagine what a falling knife could do. 

I was about ten, and sure enough, the rack broke, and the knife stuck in my arm.  It just stuck there.  The Baker rushed me to the Everdeen residence.  Katniss nor Prim was there. 

Miss Everdeen suggested an amputation.  She doubted it would heal properly, and if it did, that I wouldn’t regain function of my hand.  The Baker refused, so Miss Everdeen sewed it up, and gave me some things for infection. 

After that, the rack of knives was moved to the counter. 

“Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights,” Katniss blurts out.  I can tell it was impulsive, the way she said it. 

“Thanks I will.”  I say smiling back into those grey eyes.  “You... shoot straight.” 

I won’t give up on her.  I won’t give up on the girl with the braids. 


	8. Chapter 8

Katniss is quick.  It seems as if she is in and then out.  I wonder what she did.  She probably shot three arrows at once, each in the bulls eye of a different target.  I wish I was there to see. 

My performance is okay at best.  There are a rack of weights on a side of the room.  The Gamemakers are unresponsive.  Some of them are shaking as if they saw their life flash before their eyes.  Whatever Katniss did, it must have impressed.  “Peeta Mellark.”  I say.  Just speaking my name disturbs me.  I hope it will be quick.  Just do whatever, and walk out.  Just do something.  Think of something.

The head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, nods to me.  Even he is a bit on edge.  What did she do? 

I walk over to the rack of weights, and try each one out.  This one is about a third a bag of flour.  This other one, I almost drop on my foot is close to just a bag.  I try each of them, and dramatically respond to their weight, each one by one.  Turning to my audience in reaction.  I take my time to build up what tension there is in this performance. 

I look directly in Seneca’s eyes, and pick up the entire rack.  It feels like ten bags of flour, a feat I have never accomplished before.  Instantly, I realize how bad of an idea this really was.  To my surprise, I let out a yell, and send the rack, along with the half dozen other weights on it, towards the Gamemakers.  I can’t toss it far at all.  A yard at best.  It slides all the way across the floor due to the momentum, giving the illusion I am far stronger than I actually am.  Every joint in my body screams including my back.  It was a bad Idea.  “Thank you,” Seneca motions for me to leave. 

That is what really happened in my private session.  I decide, halfway through the elevator ride, that I have to lie about what I actually did.  I don’t want to overplay anything; I don’t want to take any praise away from Katniss.  She deserves it all.  She has a family to go home to.  I know it is in bad taste, but I don’t want anyone to know.  It doesn’t matter.  I am good at lying.  I lied to Katniss about not knowing Gale, and for all I know, I lied to the Baker about promising to keep my identity during this process.  Peeta Mellark is long gone, I did lie to him.  I lied to myself. 

I see Effie, Haymitch, Portia, and Cinna.  I can’t find Katniss anywhere.  I am still a little out of breath.  Perhaps she is washing up after her performance.  “Hello, Peeta.”  I hear Portia before I see her smiling back at me.  I return the smile.  I grow to look forward to our interactions.  “Katniss will be out shortly,” she says.  We all sit at the table, and wait for her. 

“How do you think you did?”  Portia asks.  Cinna leans in to listen, and I feel pressure.  “I have no idea.  I didn’t do anything to draw too much attention to myself.”  It sounds wrong.  It doesn’t even make sense.  Haymitch winces at me.  I smile innocently at them all.  No one presses me for details, I think they just respect that I would rather keep that moment private. 

“Well at least the weather will be nice for the coming week.”  Cinna tries to change the subject, I can tell his attempt is futile. 

Katniss sits at the table across from me.  I try to gather anything from her face.  She appears to have been crying.  She didn’t do as well as she hoped, she regrets something. 

“Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?”  I see Katniss is about to answer, and I know this is when I have to start.  The lying is the easy part.  Timing is the hard part.  “I don’t know that it mattered, by the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me.”  I have the attention of the table, “they were singing some kind of drinking song, I think.  So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go.”  Haymitch nods, clearly thinking nothing of my story.  They can’t disprove anything I say.  The private sessions with the Gamemakers are absolutely private.  No one can know. 

“And you, sweetheart?”  Haymitch turns to Katniss.  It’s a funny thing to call her.  “I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.”  Everything stops. 

“You what?”  Effie nearly screams.  It doesn’t affect her in the least what Katniss could do.  It upsets me because I want her to win, and she isn’t doing herself any favors.  For all I know, she is lying too.

“I shot an arrow at them.  Not exactly at them.  In their direction.  It’s like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just… I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig’s mouth!”  Katniss is incredible.  I would never dare.  That must be why all the Gamemakers, including Seneca Crane were on edge.  They were shot at!  Ha!  Well that makes sense. 

“And what did they say?”  Cinna calmly asks. 

“Nothing.  Or I don’t know.  I walked out after that,” she finished.  “Without being dismissed?”  Effie is absolutely shaken by this event.  As if nothing else mattered. 

“I dismissed myself.”  Katniss is tough.  She has to be.  I guess it makes sense that she would do this. 

“Well that’s that,” Haymitch chimes in. 

There is a long pause.  No one can say anything else, and Effie is pacing in circles.  “Do you think they’ll arrest me?”  She asks. 

“Doubt it.  Be a pain to replace you at this stage,” Haymitch answers. 

“What about my family?”  She has a hard time talking.  Her voice is shaking when she asks this. 

“Don’t think so.  Wouldn’t make much sense.  See, they’d have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population.  People would need to know what you did.  But they can’t since it’s secret, so it’d be a waste of effort.  More likely they’ll make your life hell in the arena.”  Finishes Haymitch.  I hope they are forgiving.  I hope there is something I can do.  I need to do whatever I can for her.  It is what Peeta would do. 

“Well, they’ve already promised to do that to us anyway,” I try to speak sense. 

“Very true,” Haymitch agrees. 

Haymitch’s table manners have deteriorated long ago.  It is no shock to me when he picks up a pork chop with his fingers, and marinates it in wine.  Effie is even more so disturbed with the table manners.  “What were their faces like?”  He can’t contain himself, I know.  I begin to feel the humor in it.  Even if it is very serious, you have to be able to maintain some sanity by laughing a little. 

“Shocked.  Terrified.  Uh, ridiculous, some of them.”  Katniss smiles as well.  I love her smile.  I almost want to confirm that her act had a lasting impression, but I realize I can’t before I say anything. 

“One man tripped back into a bowl of punch.”  Everyone laughs except Effie.  She is too high and mighty for it. 

“Well it serves them right.  It’s their job to pay attention to you.  And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you.”  Effie comes around a bit as she says this.  She still tries to conserve her opinions.  “I’m sorry, but that’s what I think.” 

Katniss’ looming fear doesn’t go away.  “I’ll get a very bad score.” 

Portia puts a hand on Katniss, “scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones.  For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose.  People use that strategy.” 

“I hope that’s how people will interpret the four I’ll probably get.”  I continue with the story, “if that.  Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards.  One almost landed on my foot.” 

Katniss smiles at me, and gets herself some food.  Portia rubs my shoulder.  I feel horrible. 

After dinner, we go to the living room to watch the scores on television.  I sit next to Portia on a couch, and Katniss with Cinna.  Haymitch stands with a drink in hand, and Effie biting her nails. 

The scores range from one to twelve.  It is supposed to predict the likelihood of a tribute winning, if I remember correctly.  If so, they do a poor job. 

The same numerical order, each tribute’s head shot is flashed on screen along with a number; their score.  Three to seven is the average score.  The career tributes are around eight to ten. 

My head shot flashes on stage, and see the eight over my head.  Portia congratulates me as does Cinna and Haymitch.  Clearly, I really didn’t just toss around a few heavy objects while the Gamemakers sang.  To get an eight is tough, career tough.  Surely someone knows I lied. 

Following me, is Katniss, with her score of eleven out of twelve.  The highest score I ever remember anyone getting. 

Effie screams, Haymitch yells, Cinna stands out of his chair displaying the most excitement I have seen from him so far. 

“There must be a mistake,” Katniss turns to me.  I can’t hide my enthusiasm for her myself.  “How… How could that happen?”  The room is alive for the first time. 

“Guess they liked your temper, they’ve got a show to put on.”  Haymitch finishes the remainder of his glassful.  “They need some players with some heat.” 

“Katniss, the girl who was on fire!”  Cinna gives Katniss a huge hug.  This is the first time I ever saw someone embrace her.  Katniss appears to hug him back.  Effie can’t calm down, it seems.   

“Oh, wait until you see your interview dress.” 

“More flames?” Katniss asks Cinna. 

“Of a sort.” 

Katniss and I share laughter, smiles, and conversation as the night draws to a close.  It is mostly concerning our training scores.  An eleven has never been done before, as far as I know.  It is truly incredible, if Katniss is telling the truth.  It doesn’t sound like you could make up something like that.  Katniss wouldn’t.  I would.  I would be the elusive one.  Not even Peeta would do this.  I am sorry, father. 

Clearly she doesn’t need my help, but I don’t know. 

Haymitch never sleeps, so it is easy to run into him at the bar late at night, or early the next morning, whichever it is.  “Haymitch,” I call to his silhouette. 

“What is it?”  I can hear in his voice that he rather wait till morning. 

“Thank you is all.”  It must be very early.  The lights aren’t on, the sun isn’t even cracking over the horizon.  Nothing.  This is still sleeping time.  Not for me.  Not now.

I rouse before even Effie, the next morning.  She learned, from her mistake on the train, to dress before even her first cup of coffee.  Haymitch, on the other hand, never turned in last night.  I can tell.  Everything down to his wrinkled left cuff is the same.  I could barely sleep myself.  I spent most of the night tossing and turning.  Dreaming of how many ways Katniss may die. 

“Well, good morning, Peeta.”  Haymitch sounds drunk, and weary.  A poor combination.  “Today, we will help prepare you for your interview with Caesar Flickerman.  He is very easy to talk to, and I suspect you will be just fine.”  Haymitch’s confidence in me is reassuring, and unprecedented.  Effie sits with a cup of coffee and a large smile.  Haymitch, I can tell, is very annoyed.  Even I think it is too early to smile. 

“What will be your strategy for the interview?”  His breath confirms that he has been drinking. 

“Haymitch,” I take a breath.  “I need to receive instruction alone from now on.” 

His eyes lock on me, and his jaw tightens so much, it could crush brick.  “Why are you changing your mind now?”  Effie glances at me curiously. 

Why did I change my mind?  It wasn’t anything.  Nothing has changed.  I can’t explain why.  “Katniss is distracted by me.” 

“Why does everything you do revolve around her?”  Effie asks.  It’s the first genuine concern I have ever heard in her voice.  She does have a point.  I must be the most altruistic tribute she has ever met before. 

“I know I am not a contender for the Games.”  My face and throat tighten.  “I need her to have the best chance possible, Haymitch.  Whatever sponsors we get, whatever favor I have, give it to Katniss.  She has to be given the best chance.  She deserves it.” 

“Well, I don’t know about that, Peeta,” Haymitch breathes hard as if he is short of breath.  “I don’t know, you are being mighty generous.  I still don’t know why.”  What is to understand?  I know the realistic outcome of my life.  I will not pretend to even think I stand a chance.  Eight or not, I was as good as dead the morning of the reaping.  My father knew that.  My mother sure as hell knows that.  Peeta Mellark knew it. 

“It is what I would do.”  I can’t express emotion in my voice.  “I will do my best to please the crowd during the interview.  I will appreciate it if you told Katniss I will be training alone.”  


	9. Chapter 9

I already see Katniss approaching the table.  I had to speak softly for the last bit of our conversation.  Katniss’ grey eyes don’t miss a detail of that room as she surveys everything.  She traces everything from the ground up with those beautiful grey eyes.  I have to leave before she can sit. 

The Capitol really isn’t much different than a district itself.  From the roof, I can trace the electric fence that surrounds its border.  The difference between here and home is people don’t want to leave.  They have their own Justice Building, close to the President’s mansion.  It is far nicer than the one back home.  There is even a bakery here.  I miss my old routine. 

I would wake up, and the first thing I would do is fetch flour from the market near the Hob.  Usually three or four per day.  We don’t use too much, and often our stock accumulates.  After that, I would prepare our daily baked bread.  There would be some stale loaves from the week before for myself and the rest of the family to eat.  Often times, the Baker will trade fresh goods for game from Gale. 

I miss the feeling of ripping open a fifty, or even hundred pound sack of flour, and dump it right into our largest mixing bowl.  Watching our electric mixer force all of the very different ingredients together is something really.  They are all things that shouldn’t belong.  Eggs, flour, water, sometimes other things.  Yeast, spices, sugar.  Alone, they are just ingredients, but together, they make a valuable product that is so rich and comforting, no meal is complete without it.  I watch that mixer, sometimes for its complete cycle.  Just to watch all of the alien and separate parts become a whole.  That’s my favorite part of home.  That is something I would never trade.  That is the last part of me no one can take away. 

The smell of our old family recipe is sharp in my mind.  I can smell it every time the girl with the braids enters my view.  I think, in the most extreme of circumstances I would survive, I make it home, the first thing I would do is bake a batch of that bread.  Bury my hands in the moist concoction, flood my senses with the cinnamon and raisins, and feel its heat radiate through my skin as I caress it against my cheek.  Only I know that the only possible way I could do that is for Katniss to die.  If I ever made it home, I couldn’t live with myself.

But I know, if I would ever do this, I wouldn’t have left the arena at all.  I wouldn’t be home, and I wouldn’t be Peeta Mellark.  I would be District Twelve’s tribute.  I would be Haymitch Abernathy; drink myself sick every night, and meltdown constantly over things I failed to do.  Someone I failed to save.  A girl I loved since childhood.  That is a pain worse than death: regret.  That pin haunts my sleep.  It is the one thing that weaves us all together.  Haymitch, the Baker, Maysilee Donner, Katniss, and me.  That symbol will inspire more than Katniss may know.  I saw what it did to Haymitch on the train.  I felt it in the cockles of my heart what something as a trinket could do.  I see a golden mockingjay fly in circles over my head, singing that now haunting tune.  The one mockingjays sung back home; the one I cannot remember the lyrics to.  In front of me is Katniss, dressed as I am, in a barren waste of a place.  Every step I take towards her, the mockingjay flies away from me.  With each step, a little farther, until it’s gone.  Note by note fades away, and we find ourselves under a hanging tree.  We cry.  We die.  She is the mockingjay, I think.  Always fleeting, incorruptible, survivor, rebel.

“Peeta.”  I forgot where I was for a moment.  The view from the roof in the morning is breathtakingly beautiful.  Even if I must admit I am saying the Capitol is beautiful.  It is.  There is beauty in sinister places.

“How are you feeling?”  Portia sits next to me.  She wears the same style dresses, and heels.  I notice, like last time I was with her on the roof, she took off her heels. 

“I am fine,” I admit.  “Nervous actually.” 

“Why are you giving up?”  Her question is direct, and almost accusing.  It is a different tone than her usual soothing pry. 

“I don’t know what you expect from me, okay?  In literally a moment as fast as you could say my name, I found out I would fight to the death in a battle I cannot win.  I won’t pretend to think I will win, even then, do I want to?”  Portia’s eyebrows furrow to signify a question.  Funny, her eyebrows are dark brown, and hair bleach blonde.  Her skin is like Katniss’.  She could be from the Seam by the looks of it.  “Look at Haymitch.  That is who most of the victors turn to be.  Morphing, alcohol, and complete absent mindedness is my future if I win.  I don’t want it.  I don’t want any of it!”  I feel my anger overcome me, pick me up on my feet, and stand directly over Portia.  I realize how I must look, she began to back away.  Probably afraid that her fate would be as the mirror in my room.  “I am sorry, I didn’t…” 

“It is understandable, Peeta.”  She stands.  Without heels she is about as tall as Katniss.  To my surprise, she just holds me in her arms. 

“Don’t think of what may come of you, like this. Peeta, can I tell you something personal?”  I nod as I wipe my eyes with my palm.  “When I first saw you, I thought I was in the wrong room.  I thought I entered District Two’s prep room,” she laughs a little.  “I saw your face.  More importantly, I saw your eyes.”  What is she getting at?  “There is a twinkle I see even now.  It spoke to me.” 

“What do you mean?”  Portia gathers her thoughts as she paces. 

“You are more human than anyone here.  I hope, whenever you may die, that you take that with you to your grave.  I don’t know, you’re just really something.” 

Portia takes me by the hand and leads me to the living are of our floor, where we watched the scores the night before.  Haymitch is patiently waiting for me sipping a drink and reclining in a chair.  “Glad you could make it,” he says with a grouchy moan.   “Of all of the dumbest things one could ask for…  Oh well.  I have you for four hours, so let’s begin.” 

Haymitch coaches me on what to do for the interview.  I listen as intently as I can, soaking up every bit of information I can.  “What are you?  Somehow, even if your primary interest is in Katniss, you have to make the audience like you somehow.  You can’t help her unless you have something she doesn’t.  Be witty, be funny, charming, crazy, I don’t care.”  Portia hasn’t left, and I am glad.  I don’t like being alone with Haymitch.  Her eyes never linger from me.  If it were anyone else I would be concerned or embarrassed.  Portia’s stare isn’t anything but reassuring to me. 

“I can be whatever you’d like,” I say with a smile the way I know Effie would. 

“Portia, take it from here.  Interview the boy.”  Haymitch hands her a stack of questions either Caesar could ask or had already before.   

“Peeta,” her voice shifts dramatically, and I can’t help but laugh. 

“Peeta, stop.  Portia, continue.”  Haymitch doesn’t tolerate me.  His anger is humorous in a way.  The comical manner in which his face scrunches like a raison when he frowns maybe.

“How is living in the Capitol different from living in District Twelve?”  I can’t contain myself. 

“Well there are many differences, Caesar,” I linger on that name.  “Let me begin with the showers.  Have you taken one lately?” 

Haymitch is rubbing his brow.  His annoyance is my pleasure.  He waves Portia on to just continue.  “Indeed I have, I took one before I arrived,” she says the way Caesar would.  I try to just go on, maybe jokes will be the way to win affection. 

“Well, I am going to let you in on a secret, Caesar.” 

“Yes, what’s that?”  Portia asks, leaning toward me in anticipation. 

“I shower… naked.” 

Suprisingly enough, Haymitch laughs.  Portia nearly breaks out in tears.  Humor is strange in a way.  Why are funny things funny?  I guess it is more of the shock factor than anything else.  The ‘what the hell?’ factor I guess.  I didn’t expect my mockery to be taken this lightly.  “Now if you do this on stage, you will be wonderful!  What were you thinking when you answered that question?”  I don’t know what I was thinking honestly. 

“Well, how ridiculous the question was really.”  Haymitch stands, and paces the floor. 

“Portia, continue.”  Portia flips through the stack finding the best question. 

“Peeta, in the arena, will you rely in intelligence or strength?”  I think about this one hard.  A bit too long for Haymitch. 

“Okay, you had me and you lost me.  That was so good, what happened?”  All I can do is shrug. 

“Peeta, you have this personality, it is almost appealing.”  Awe, now don’t get all sappy on me, Haymitch.  “What do you care about?  What do you like?” 

“All I like to do is bake, really.  There is nothing I enjoyed more back home.  Well, I like to do other things, I guess.  I like art.  I love to sketch and draw.”  Haymitch raises a brow. 

“What about Katniss?  I still don’t understand.”  I rub my hands together. 

“Maybe you never will.”  By his expression, he doesn’t care. 

“Just make sure they all know.”   

The rest of our time is spent with Haymitch begging, “Just give me something!”  Apparently I am not enough for him to work with.  Portia offers her encouragement.  It too only gets shot down by Haymitch. 

“I may take your criticisms more seriously if others who had you as a mentor lived.”  I know it was harsh; Portia cringed, but Haymitch, to my surprise,

“That’s it, keep that up if anything else.  You may not be interesting, but damn it, do that!” 

Katniss is near through with her lessons from Effie.  She makes it to Haymitch before we are done.  All he has to say more is that I should try to be humorous during the interview.  If I can make him laugh, I can make anyone.  I smile at Katniss but she doesn’t look back.  I wait with Portia back on the roof.  Apparently, that is where Effie will be coaching me. 

“I really like it up here,” Portia comments.  She lifts her arms above her head, and faces the center of the city.  “I feel… Free.” 

“Do you think I will be okay? For the interview, I mean?”  She nods and smiles at me.  I really hope that I will remember moments like this with her.  When there is nothing but ugliness in the world, and death around me, I will remember Portia’s smile. 

“If I wasn’t as old as I am now, I would really like you, Peeta.”  Portia isn’t old.  Her age can’t be far from Cinna’s.  He is mid-thirties I think.  She has very youthful features.  She isn’t tall, there is no evidence of wrinkling.  Her tan skin shines, and hair is a perfect blonde.  I have a hard time thinking like this at all, about anyone.  Anyone but the girl with the braids.

“What is it about me?”  We sit down, and I begin to feel that my coaching hasn’t stopped, it is continuing even now; even if Portia is being personal. 

“You have a way with words.  You are motivated, even if it is a false motivation I don’t condone.”  Even if I have given up on my life, she means. 

“I know what you mean.”  She puts her hand on my knee. 

“Be honest, Peeta.”  Be honest?  I don’t know exactly what she meant to say.  I’ll try not to overthink it. 

Effie enters the roof in a canter.  I now know why Portia never hesitates to remove hers on the roof. 

Effie spends her time having me repeat annoying vocal exercises.  It feels like there are a hundred of them, and after a while, my throat get sore from repeating myself so long. 

“Well what did you expect?  Did you think it would be easy?”  If only she knew how hard this process really was. 

She teaches me to walk tall.  I mess up frequently on purpose, only to see Effie Trinket attempt to walk “like a man.”  It is ridiculous, the way she expects me to carry myself.  Shoulders high, hips slightly forward, chest out.  I feel like I am a Peacekeeper marching.  “At least walk like you care!”  Effie’s temper is sometimes frightening.  She reminds me of my mother. 

It only annoys her more when I prance around like a dancer.  Her temper is a force to reckon with, but all I want to see is Portia laugh.  She has very little to add to this, and just lets me be my annoying self around Effie.  “No!  No!”  Effie yells as I wave my arms around like a simian.  “Stop that, Peeta!  You are not a child!”  She huffs and puffs at my attempts to annoy her.  If only she knew the more upset she was with me, the more I acted up.

After the grueling session with Effie, the tributes have to prepare for the interview.  As always, tributes are ordered numerically with ladies first.  “You will close the interviews,” Portia explains as she fits me for a suit.  I never wore a suit before.  I am wearing only underwear as she measures every part of me with a tape. 

“I am confident in you.  You are a good speaker.  Just talk.  Don’t think.”  The advice fits I guess.  “You won’t put your foot in your mouth.  You know boundaries, and I expect the crowd to love every bit of you.”  I smile at her reflection in the mirror.  She returns it warmly as she has me try on a black jacket with a hint of flames on the sleeves. 

“I guess the fire thing is a hit,” I comment. 

“You have no idea.”  She comments.  “Funny thing, really.  Fire.  You and Katniss at this point are catching fire.  Everything about you two is…”  She pauses, I look back at her through the mirror.  “Is something else.”

“Portia,” she looks up from her work as if nothing could be more important than my words.  “You told me to be honest.  What exactly did you mean?”  I slip into a pair of pants, and button a white shirt.  There is a black tie, and shoes on the chair.  I know how to dress myself. 

“The audience is easy to lie to, but they also know when one is being genuine.  If what you say is true, you don’t want this, tell them.  It will set you apart from everyone else.  Even Katniss.” 

I have trouble with the tie.  Portia ties a knot called a Windsor.  I don’t even know.  It’s not like it will matter.  Just like that, she is gone.  Given me a time to show up to the elevator, and left me in my lonesome.

Portia knows I can lie.  She must be smart enough to tell when.  There is no way I could score an eight the way I said I preformed.  I didn’t fool anyone.  Maybe that’s it.  Maybe I have to be honest because I won’t fool anyone.  My dishonesty will only hurt Katniss.  I hate this mirror.  It shows me everything I have become, and how far away Peeta Mellark has strayed.  Ever since I entered this place, it overcame me.  The way I smile and wave at the barbarians of the Capitol like I am one of them.  I have been infiltrated.  I have conformed.  Portia is right.  Be honest.  If anything, for Peeta Mellark.  For the Baker.  For myself.  I flip my hair, messing it up a bit the way I would back home.

I meet Portia along with her prep team.  Funny, they didn’t touch me.  I didn’t even see them.  Well, thank you, Portia.  She adjusts my tie, and can’t seem to keep her hands off my suit.  I don’t mind.  I guess I have to expect it.  “How are you feeling?”  She asks.  I smile at her, and try to sound presentable. 

“I feel like a victor.” 

“You’re going to break hearts tonight, Peeta.”  That makes me laugh a lot.  I guess I am flattered.  Even though she is much older, and is just trying to ease my stage fright, the complement is greatly appreciated.  I hate being the center of attention.

Cinna, his prep team, and Katniss arrive to the elevator.  Oh, Katniss.  I nearly fall, she is nothing like I ever imagined a woman to be.  Not this spectacular.  Not this breathtaking.  Her dress is covered in gems of all colors.  Red, yellow, white, blue, all in the shape of flames.  I can’t breathe.  “Are you all right?”  Portia sees my face turn white as I stare at her. 

“I am fine.” 

“Do you need anything?  You look like you are about to collapse.”  She takes my arm in hers, ensuring I don’t plummet to the bottom floor. 

Our entire team is compressed in the elevator.  I didn’t realize how many people there were working to present us for death.  There is Katniss’ prep team, my appointed prep team, Portia, Cinna, Effie, and Haymitch.  Together we fill the elevator. 

Before we go onstage, the tributes are lined up numerically to make a collective appearance before Panem.  As we are about to walk on stage, Haymitch whispers in our ears, “Remember, you’re still a happy pair.  So act like it.” 

I see Katniss’ eyes roll at that.  I hope she didn’t misinterpret me suggesting we be coached separately.  I just wanted to help.  It can only help her, I mean.

We stand on stage at the beginning for the tributes’ collective introduction.  Katniss is not used to this, nor I.  I can tell she is not comfortable.  “Would you like to hold onto me?”  I ask her.  She is wobbling on those heels, and her knees are shaking faster than a fly flaps.  She either doesn’t hear me or is purposefully ignoring me. 

We take our seats in front of the stage.  The tributes are arced around the front, so we all have a clear view.  The smell of all the sprays, perfumes, and people is overbearing.  It almost makes me dizzy.  I try to keep a clear head for my interview.  It will be hard, being from District Twelve, we are last. 

By the time Katniss is up, the crowd is almost gone.  Due to her popularity from our fiery debut, she is met with overwhelming applause. 

Caesar really works with the tributes; I am not worried for her.  The boy from eleven, Thresh, barely said a word, and Caesar carried the entire two minute interview.  That is our time window.  Two minutes.  Win the crowd in two minutes; it may save your life.

The applause finally dies down, but Katniss’ expression is shock.  “So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve.  What’s impressed you since you arrived here?” 

I can’t help but think of my comment of the showers during my time with Haymitch. 

Caesar lightly laughs.  It is sympathetic, really.  “What’s impressed you most since you arrived here?”  Without hesitation, “The lamb stew.”  Katniss’ voice is clearly expressing her anxiety.  I don’t care.  I can’t get over her appearance.  She would have me if I was a potential sponsor.  She would have me right there.  I am glad she can’t see the stupid smile on my face right now.

The audience laughs.  “The one with the dried plumbs?”  I remember Katniss eating this morning, right before I left for the roof.  Caesar continues the conversation effortlessly.  I look forward to it.  He would be fun to talk to.  “Oh, I eat it by the bucketful.” 

Her interview continues like this, and I am truly impressed.  She even smiles sometimes. 

Cinna is unbelievable.  He tailored the synthetic fire in her dress.  Caesar has her spin, and words can’t describe what I see.  I am not here.  I am being consumed by fire, and there is nothing left of me but my beating heart.  The mockingjay takes flight.

Caesar cannot get over that eleven score, and I don’t blame him.  He presses Katniss for details, but a man from the audience, I assume is a Gamemaker, yells “She’s not!”  If her story is true, it would be advisable she not share it. 

“And you volunteered.  Can you tell us about her?”  Just like that, the auditorium is silent.  Dead silent. 

“Her name’s Prim.  She’s just twelve.  And I love her more than anything.”  There is nothing I can do to express my hatred for them all at that moment.  Hatred for the Capitol, them all.  How could this happen?  How did we become this?  The punishment doesn’t fit the crime.  I would die a thousand bitter deaths to end this.  To end all of it.  A tear lands on my shoe.  It makes a light tapping noise, but it is enough to make me realize she reduced me to tears.  The girl with the braids must survive. 

“What did she say to you?  After the reaping?”  Caesar asks.  His sympathies are with her as well as the entire auditorium.  Maybe not so much with the tributes. 

“She asked me to try really hard to win.” 

“And what did you say?”  I am on the edge of my seat. 

“I swore I would.”  This interview has to be the highlight of the night.  Nothing else compares. 

“I bet you did.”  The buzzer coldly rings.  Her two minutes time is up.  That’s all the Capitol can spare for someone sentenced to death. 

“Sorry we’re out of time.  Best of luck, Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve.” 

No one can stop clapping.  Many tributes are applauding.  Little Rue has a bright smile on her face.  I make eye contact with her, and she glares back with that same expression from the training center.  I wink at her to let her know it’s okay.  She smiles, and I laugh. 

“Now, please welcome District Twelve’s male tribute, Peeta Mellark!”  Caesar announces with such enthusiasm.  I make it on stage and wave to the crowd.  Every muscle in my body protests to me smiling and waving, but I know it’s for the best.  For Katniss.  Portia smile is massive.  I think she is proud of the appearance I have made so far.  She claps her hands together like a giddy schoolgirl.  I wink at her from stage, through the bright lights blinding me.  I can barely see anyone.  I can barely see Katniss sitting in the row.

“Well, well, Peeta!”  Caesar gives me a strong hand shake, and cringes as I grip him.  I realize my nerves have gotten the best of me as I nearly clasp the life from his frail hand. 

“I am sorry,” I apologize.  Thankfully the applause drowns this part out. 

“Quite alright, Peeta.  Well I know now you are very strong.”  He is a very good interviewer.  “If I may, how do you have such strong hands?  I know you work at a bakery back…” 

“Yes,” I take my cue.  “It is a family bakery, and my primary occupation is to knead the dough.”  I make a squeezing motion with both of my hands outstretched.  I know exactly what I am doing, it looks as if I am groping a woman’s chest.  Caesar turns away laughing away, as does the crowd.  I pretend to be oblivious to the crudeness of my humor.  It’s impromptu. 

“So you knead dough?”  Caesar confirms. 

“Exhausting business,” I assure him.

“How would you describe me in terms of bread, Peeta?” 

“Well, let’s see, with your blue suit, you must be some kind of blueberry pastry.  Not a muffin, you are too slim,” Caesar turns to the audience for confirmation of my compliment.  “You would be either a blueberry scone, or biscuit one would have with coffee.”  The audience enjoys this, and I am doing exactly as Portia instructed.  I am not thinking.  I am just talking. 

“What about the tributes?”  His suggestion to place some tributes with bread makes me nervous.  I am thinking of how they could retaliate at me in the arena after I humiliate them.  I very well could. 

“Well not everyone can be compared to bread.  Only a certain elite type profile and physique would be comparable to bread.  I must say, their hair tends to be the same color as the grains from their district.”  His expression is curious as I try to explain.  “See the girl from eleven,” I point to Rue.  The monitors flip to a live feed of her sitting in the front row.  “Her hair looks just like some of seeds one finds in District Eleven’s bread.” 

Caesar maintains interest.  “So Peeta, what has been the biggest change for you since your arrival?”  This requires even less thinking than before.  All I have to do is remember the session with Haymitch. 

“The showers are an experience.  Assuming you took a shower, you know what I am talking about.  The options are overwhelming, and hot water feels like hot water no matter what direction it comes from.  Tell me, do I still smell like roses?”  I raise an eyebrow after my short speech, leaning into his direction slightly.  Caesar is even more shocked at the proposal I make of him smelling me than the groping. 

We take turns smelling each other, and the audience eats it up. 

The last minute of the interview is something I never prepared for.  “So Peeta, you have a Girlfriend back home, yes?”  How do I answer this question?  Yes?  No?  I don’t know?  It takes a long while, and an awkward pause for me to answer.  _“Be honest, Peeta.”_  I shake my head. 

“Handsome lad like you.  There must be some special girl.  Come one, what’s her name?”  Caesar’s question is unforgiving.  I don’t blame it on him.  Portia is right.  I need to be honest.  Just once in my life, I need to come clean.  Since I was five, I knew the answer to this question. 

“Well, there is this one girl.  I’ve had a crush on ever since I can remember.  But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping.”

The crowd shares its sympathy.  It is an empty sympathy.

Be honest, be honest, be honest!

“She have another fellow?” 

“I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her.”  That is true.  Well give me the benefit of the doubt.  If there is even another boy like me back home, he is head over heels as well. 

“So here’s what you do.  You win, you go home.  She can’t turn you down then, eh?”  He slaps me on the shoulder, but I can’t help but maintain a melancholy attitude towards this subject.  I couldn’t lie if I wanted to.  Caesar’s proposition would make sense if it was any other girl other than the girl with the braids.  If it was any other girl, I would be optimistic about winning.  I wouldn’t give all my sponsor support to Katniss, I wouldn’t have requested to train alone, and I wouldn’t be blushing. 

“I don’t think it’s going to work out.  Winning… won’t help in my case.”  I see Portia’s face.  She realized what I mean to say.  Her mouth drops to the floor.  My confession is already known by her.  It all makes sense now, and everyone will now know my intentions.  I am being honest.  I make eye contact with Portia.  She just nods to me, ‘Keep going!’ she nonverbally yells.

“Why ever not?”  Everything about this moment just seems right for some reason.  Caesar’s expression, Portia’s surprise, I even see Katniss is leaning on every word.  I don’t break eye contact with Katniss Everdeen.  The only thing I would change is how much I begin blushing, and how much I begin stuttering. 

“Because…  because…  she came here with me.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Oh, that is a piece of bad luck.”  Caesar understood just as the rest of the audience did.  I see Portia is just keeping a hand over her mouth.  Katniss expression is unreadable. 

“It’s not good,” I add. 

The crowd begun to sympathize.  I hear many groans and even sobs.  If they really cared, this wouldn’t have to happen.

“Well I don’t think any of us can blame you.  It’d be hard not to fall for that young lady.”  Caesar nudges my shoulder comically.  I give him a look that instantly communicates I am not longer in the mood to charm.  “She didn’t know?”  He asks finally. 

“Not until now.”  I shake my head.  The sleeves cover my arms where I would like to look back down at my scars.  It is a nice suit Portia fitted me in.  Incredible, really, how clothes that fit feel. 

“Wouldn’t you love to pull her back out here and get a response?”  The audience can’t contain themselves at that suggestion, but I lightly shake my head at Caesar.  I don’t want that, that’s not in good taste. 

“Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen’s time has been spent.”  All the other tributes are now glued on her, and I can see on a Capitol monitor that her face is all they have been broadcasting since my fit of honesty. 

“Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours.” 

Even Katniss didn’t get a standing ovation.  It is funny how the slightest bit of emotion can move a crowd to tears.  The smallest speck of purity in a tainted world will purify the lusting soul. 

“Thank you.”  I shake his hand lightly, and take my seat.  I think my voice gave out while I was saying that. 

As I make my way offstage to my seat, I feel like I am floating.  All eyes are glued to me, and all the screens are broadcasting Kantniss.  The anthem plays out, and I swear Katniss is avoiding me. 

I make it back upstairs just in time to be alone for a bit.  No one is back, I am the first.  It is harder than I thought to pull myself together.

Maybe Haymitch won’t notice I steal enough white liquor to fill a glass two fingers worth.  I try not to taste it, and just let it pass down my throat.  It burns, sending a warm feeling down my throat and into my chest.

 _Whoosh!_ Our floor door flies open, and Katniss is approaching dangerously fast.  She throws all her weight in her hands.  They strike down on my chest, and I lose my balance.  It happens before I know it.  I hit an urn filled with fake flowers.  The urn breaks, and I land, hands first, in the mess.  I blame the alcohol for my clumsiness.  I immediately feel countless bits of urn in my hands.  The blood soaks the white shirt I am wearing.  Standing above me, Katniss.  Her eyes burn at me.  I can’t imagine why. 

“What was that for?”  Dumbstruck is a good word to describe how I feel.  I expected tension, maybe an awkward encounter.  Not rage. 

“You had no right!  No right to go saying those things about me!” 

Luckily, the door flies open a second time with Cinna, Haymitch, Portia, and Effie.  They are all frightened at what they see.  “What’s going on?”  Effie blurts out first.  “Did you fall?” 

I owe her nothing now.  “After she shoved me.”  I try to pick myself up, but the bits of urn only embed themselves deeper in my hands.  The pain is horrible.  Effie does her best to help pull me to my feet, but really, Cinna and Portia pull me up by each arm.  They are careful not to get any blood on themselves. 

“Shoved him?”  Haymitch pulls her shoulder to face him.  A deep tonal anger in his voice. 

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?  Turn me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?” 

“It was my idea,” I say, hopefully rechanneling her anger.  I try picking the shards from my hand, only whenever I move my right, it is so painful, I have to stop.  “Haymitch just helped me with it.” 

That is not entirely true.  Haymitch couldn’t be more vague about what he wanted me to do during our time together.  “Yes, Haymitch is very helpful.  To you!” 

“You _are_ a fool!”  Haymitch blurts out in a full yell.  “Do you think he hurt you?  That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own.” 

“He made me look weak!”  Katniss counters. 

“He made you look desirable!  And let’s face it, you can use all of the help you can get in that department.  You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you.”  This is a bit much, in my opinion.  “Now they all do.  You’re all they’re talking about.  The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!”  Haymitch really can turn things around like that.  He takes his job very seriously, I give him that. 

“But we’re not star-crossed lovers!”  Katniss blurts.  Haymitch tries talking sense into her.  I can see all attempts are futile. 

“Who care?  It’s all a big show.  It’s all how you’re perceived.  The most I could say after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle.  Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker.”  Hell I could have said that.

“Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet.  Which do you think will get you more sponsors?”  Cinna steps forward, making space between her and Haymitch.  She must need it. 

“He’s right, Katniss.”  She depends on Cinna for sanity, I can tell. 

“I should have been told, so I didn’t look stupid.”  No one was told.  The only person that knew I would do that was me.  Even I didn’t known until halfway through my interview. 

Portia leans in to Katniss, “No, your reaction was perfect.  If you’d known, it wouldn’t have,” she is searching for words.  “Read as real.” 

“She’s just worried about her boyfriend,” I wish I could take that back as soon as I said it.  Words are funny that way.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”  Her voice rings with pain. 

“Whatever.  But I know he’s smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it.  Besides, _you_ didn’t say you loved _me_.  So what does it matter?” 

I can see in her eyes, whatever Gale may be to her, she misses him dearly.  Those soft grey eyes.  I hurt her when all I wanted to do was help.  That must be the price of honesty sometimes.

It takes a moment for Portia to retrieve a pair of large tweezers.  She gently removes each piece.  “After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?”  The question annoys me.  I don’t know if it is the way she talks about me in the third person, or that she even questions that what I said was real or a stunt. 

“I did.”  Portia smiles at me, and then Katniss.  “The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush.”  She blushed?  What does that mean?  Nothing probably.  It was news to her, that’s all. 

“You’re golden sweetheart.  You’re going to have sponsors lined up around the block.”  I hope that is the case, as Haymitch said.  I want her to have the best chance she can, even if she destroyed my hands.  I don’t care after all. 

“I’m sorry I shoved you.”  I look at her while Portia is still removing the bits.  She stands in front of me.

“Doesn’t matter,” Katniss is staring at the floor again.  Clearly ashamed of what she has done.  “Although, it’s technically illegal.”  I try to say this with a hint of sarcasm.  Katniss doesn’t look up. 

“Are your hands okay?”  Her voice clearly is sympathetic, and I know she regrets what she did.  I completely forgive her.  How couldn’t I?  I doubt I wouldn’t react the same if someone like Delly Cartwright did the exact same thing to me. 

“They’ll be all right.” 

“Come on, let’s eat.”  Haymitch leads us to the dining room.  Portia notices that my hands are still bleeding.  Funny, I didn’t. 

“I need to take you to a nurse,” she whispers, and we leave.  We go somewhere via the elevator.  The trip is a silent and painful one.

I am still in my suit while I sit in a familiar elevated bed, waiting for someone to fix up my hands.  Portia sits next to me. 

“Wow,” she compliments. 

“What?” 

“Now it all makes sense!”  Portia stand after receiving her revelation.  “That is why you say you have given up.  That is why you want Haymitch to give her all of your sponsors.  That is why you protected her when she recognized an avox.”  She covers her mouth quickly as if she muttered blasphemy.  “That is why, whenever you open your mouth, you praise her.  How long have you felt this way about Katniss?” 

“Since I was five years old, the first day of school.”  I don’t hesitate.  That memorable day.

“This is a story people dream of, Peeta.  This is something that makes me wish I was younger.  It will shake the Hunger Games to its very core.”  I wouldn’t go that far, Portia.  She doesn’t even like me.  There isn’t anything to be excited about. 

Portia paces the floor, mumbling to herself as a nurse cleans out the remainder of the shards from both my hands.  “I am going to put a gel on your hands.  It will hurt at first,” she explains.

I am not worried about the pain, just what it is supposed to do.  “What is it for?”  I ask nervously. 

“It will grow your skin back in time for the morning.” 

That’s right.  The morning.  The Games.  The Seventy-Fourth annual Hunger Games. 

The nurse is right, it hurts, but only slightly.  She wraps my hands in bandages, and we are sent back to dinner.  Everyone has finished by the time we make it back.  Katniss is very ashamed, I can tell.  She only looks up from the tablecloth when she is addressed. 

After dinner, we watch the interviews on the screen as an audience member ourselves.  Only the boy from District Two, Cato, draws a particular interest.  If I remember correctly, he was eyeing me in the training center. 

Katniss was beautiful, and Haymitch didn’t give her enough credit when he scolded her earlier.  She is beautiful, breathtaking.  When she spins, her dress lights up on fire, the girl on fire; the girl with the braids. 

During my interview, Haymitch laughs at the bit I do about kneading dough.  Cinna mentions something about me comparing Rue’s hair to grain, I can’t hear exactly what he says. 

Then, the moment when everything changed.  You could see it in the stares from the cow eyes of the Capitol citizens.  _“Because she came here with me.”_   You could feel it in the room.  Portia gasps, Effie nearly cries, and Katniss blushes profusely.  “That’s it,” Haymitch finally mutters.  “The icing on the cake.”  He slaps my leg.  Well, I have his approval.  If that is even noteworthy. 

I heard the Games don’t start until ten AM tomorrow.  We have to get up early to travel, and prepare, though.  Haymitch, and Effie aren’t coming.  They have to sign up Katniss for sponsors.  That should make things easier.  I don’t know, I think I sort of like Haymitch.  It seems so long ago he puked all over that train, and I cleaned him.  It was only days ago he melted down in my arms screaming the name of one he couldn’t save.  I now know what I must do to prevent that from befalling me. 

Effie Trinket holds both Katniss and my hand.  She cries a little.  “I won’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!” 

Katniss can’t help but roll her eyes.  I understand.  I kiss Effie on the cheek, and she hugs me affectionately.

“Any final words of advice?”  I turn to Haymitch who is now emptying a bottle. 

“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there.  You’re neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.  Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves, and the others, and find a source of water.  Got it?”  I nod at Haymitch’s words. 

“And after that?”  Katniss asks anxiously. 

“Stay alive,” he responds with a wink to me. 

I am not tired, I cannot sleep.  I don’t even pretend to think I will.  I spend the night on the roof, feeling the burn of my hands from whatever the nurse applied to them.  If I ignore the burn, my hands feel better.  Sitting is too difficult.  I am too anxious, so I lean against the railing overlooking the Capitol.

It still amazes me.  The Capitol, I mean.  I still can’t understand how such a place filled with beauty and wonder could house the most vicious, bloodthirsty, and violent people in Panem.  Maybe that is it.  Maybe reality is counterintuitive.  Evil is very beautiful.  It is seducing, harmonizing.  Evil spreads itself on the floor only to cling to the feet of an unsuspecting victim, covering them in its adhesive bond.  That is the Capitol. 

I believe there is evil in this world.  There has to be.  And it is winning. 

There are footsteps, and I can only guess who is making them.  Who else can’t sleep tonight?  “You should be getting some sleep.”  I rub my hands together, and remember my injury.  From the view of the roof, there is a miraculous scene of celebration.  I have never seen anything like it, and probably will never again. 

“I didn’t want to miss the party.  It’s for us, after all.”  Katniss leans against the railing next to me.  “Are they in costumes?”  She asks.  So far I haven’t given much thought to what their dress is.  It is all a costume to me.  It’s all a front. 

“Who could tell,” I try to sound friendly.  I have long since forgiven Katniss.  I understand why she was upset.  “With all the crazy clothes they wear.  Couldn’t sleep either?” 

“Couldn’t turn my mind off.”  I can see that in her eyes.  They are exhausted but will not close.  I would take it all away if I could.  I wouldn’t have her spend a moment here she didn’t have to. 

“Thinking about your family?”  I ask her.  I already know the answer.  Her sister, Prim.  I can only imagine how she is coping with this.  She is such a delicate being.  Her soft blonde hair is like mine, as well as her eyes. 

“No,” I can tell that is the truth.  She avoids my gaze.  I relieve her of it.  “All I can do is wonder about tomorrow.  Which is pointless, of course.”  Her voice is the softest I ever heard it.  Not quiet, just soft.  Vulnerable.  She trusts me almost.  I never thought that would happen.  What could I possibly do to earn her trust?  “I really am sorry about your hands.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Katniss.  I’ve never been a contender in these Games anyway.”  I feel vulnerable, too. 

“That’s no way to be thinking.”  There is real concern in her voice.  The most human she has been since she volunteered. 

“Why not?  It’s true.  My best hope is not to disgrace myself and...”  How do I say it?  Like the Baker did?  What I promised him?  _“The trick is to not let them change you.”_  

“And what?”  She asks me. 

The baker was right.  “I don’t want them to change me in there.  Turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not.” 

Katniss’ expression is confused.  Perhaps she assumed me a vicious killer.  A murderer, not to be trusted.  “Do you mean you won’t kill anyone?” 

“No, when the time comes, I’m sure I’ll kill just like everybody else.  I can’t go down without a fight.  Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to… to show the Capitol they don’t own me.  That I am more than just a piece in their Games.” 

She is a realist in ways I am an optimist.  “But you’re not.  None of us are.  That’s how the Games work.”

“Okay, but within that framework, there’s still you, there’s still me,” I can’t let this last part of Peeta Mellark go along with so many other parts that used to be me.  This won’t dash away.  “Don’t you see?” 

“A little.  Only… no offense, but who cares, Peeta?” 

“I do,” I snap.  “I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?”  How else can I say it?  I am a person. 

“Care about what Haymitch said.  About staying alive.” 

“Okay.  Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.”  I try to sound like Haymitch.  I might as well have a laugh.  She doesn’t see my humor.  In fact, I think it was the opposite of innocent fun to her. 

“Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that’s your choice.  I want to spend mine in District Twelve.” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me if you do.”  I can’t take it personally.  In fact, that is what I truly want to.  I could never tell her that.  I don’t want to burden her that way.  She doesn’t deserve to know it.  “Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?” 

“Count on it.”  I feel the impact of my choice in words in her voice.  Like many things I say, I regretted it. 

I never actually watched the sun rise before.  It isn’t what they make it up to be.  I was once told that the sun was a star.  It is certainly the largest star I have ever seen.  It gives us life, and people, a long time ago, would worship the sun for its life giving light. 

We worship the Capitol for its death giving Games.  How far we have come as a species. 

“Peeta,” Portia’s voice rings me out of a sleepless slumber.  “It is time.” 

I nod, and a hovercraft flies over the roof.  A ladder drops, and I assume I have to climb it.  When I touch the ladder, I am frozen.  Locked in some kind of grasp, and it pulls me up by itself.  Someone who reminds me of the nurse I saw last night sticks me with some kind of syringe.  It is like nothing I have ever felt before.  “This is your tracker,” she says, and leaves me.  I am released from the strange grip, and find a seat.  Portia soon joins me. 

We are flown to the arena, and prepared in a subterranean prep room.  I will be elevated on my platform via large transparent cylinders. 

I am given all of the food I want, but Portia advices me to eat certain things over others.  I trust her judgment.  I really like Portia now. 

“How are you feeling?”  She asks me.

“I am fine.”  I reply to her.  She takes both of my hands as we wait for the signal to get in the tubes. 

I shower, brush my teeth, and dress in a pair of pants with a bunch of pockets.  There is a white shirt, very similar to the one on the train, that I put on.  The only difference is that it is a strange shade of green.  Over that goes a jacket.  Portia gave it to me.  Wonderfully fitted boots slide on both of my feet, and Portia removes the bandages from my hands.  They reveal pink scars that would fool anyone into thinking this was an injury from some time ago. 

“Portia, I need to tell you that I…” 

“Shut up,” she iterrupts me like my father did the day we said goodbye.  “Peeta, you have to listen to me.  I know that you think you don’t stand a chance,” there is a tear in her eye.  Her blonde hair is tied up, and I can see every expression in her face.  “But you do.  I know what you did in your private session with the Gamemakers,” this takes me aback.  “You are strong.  You are brave.  Most importantly, you have heart.”  She places her hand over my beating chest.  It is very rapid; I am nervous to face my death.  “If what you said with Caesar is true, you have to fight,” Portia hesitates.  “For her.  If that is the last thing you have to do, then do it.  See her home.  The boy I met in the prep room would do that.” 

“You have been a mother to me, Portia.  I can’t thank you enough.” 

“Don’t.  I will never forget you, Peeta Mellark.  You inspire me.  I love you.”  She kisses me on the forehead, and holds me as I sob.  We wait like this for some time. 

“Prepare for launch,” a voice from a speaker booms.  I stand over a circular disk.  Portia holds onto both of my hands until the glass cylinder won’t allow it anymore.  She places a hand on the glass, as do I.  I am elevated very slowly, and our gaze doesn’t break until darkness from the earth suffocates my sense of sight.  She was crying.  She cares about me. 

The arena is very bright, and all the tributes circle the massive golden horn called the Cornucopia.  Everything one could hope for is there, even a bow. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games begin!” 

The voice could only belong to the one and only Claudius Templesmith.  I remember his voice from previous games. 

I can smell the trees before I can see them, and I make out Katniss five tributes to my left.  There is a sixty second countdown before the Games begin.  Every tribute has enough time to just make out what they will do given the setting.  Nowhere near enough time.  What will I do?  Will I run away?  Sprint into my death at the Cornocopia?  Katniss? 

 _“You have to fight.  For her.”_ Portia’s voice booms through my head as I can only anticipate my death fast approaching.  _“You are my son, Peeta.  You are a part of me that can’t be replaced.”_ The Baker’s voice follows.  _“Don’t let them change you!”_ Words I never even directly heard, just flooding my mind as I turn to face Katniss who looks to be preparing to go for the bow at the Cornucopia.  _“It has to be her, it has to be her!”_

This whole time I have been preparing for the Games, this whole time I knew Peeta Mellark was long gone, I was wrong.  He is right here.  He is admiring the girl with the braids before himself.  Just like he did when he was five years old.  He sees the face of beauty.  He never left. 

Just as our time is about to expire, Katniss’ grey eyes find mine, and with every bit of Peeta Mellark there is, I shake my head so that she may not run to her death.  “Trust me!”  I yell.  A few other tributes look my way.  Cato glances over, and I wink at him.  I remember he favored me in the training session. 

Katniss doesn’t understand, but that’s okay, because the gong sounded, and she has lost her chance to run for the bow. 


	11. Chapter 11

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I run a good distance into the bloodbath.  There are things I saw I never imagined could happen to a person.  I can’t begin to describe it.  Blood.  Just a lot of blood.  Pain, innards, things falling out ones’ body that should never fall out. 

I am happy to see that my distraction worked on Katniss.  She only had enough time to take a backpack, and run away.  The bag was already claimed by a boy, but the girl from two threw a knife in his back.  She let one fly at Katniss too, but, thankfully, it only found its way into the bag. 

I am relieved to see she ran, and I do the same after I get a bag of my own.  Fly like the mockingjays.  I run from the Cornucopia as fast as I can.  What else can I do?  _Find Katniss._ There is only the sound of cries of pain at the Cornucopia.  They are quickly silenced.  The large one from two, Cato scavenges for supplies, and another begins to pile them.  The initial alliance has been made.  I hide in some brush that is the opposite side of the Cornucopia Katniss ran from.  I survey the scene, plan out my next move.  What can I do?

I squint as I make out a blonde haired girl, I think is named Glimmer.  She’s from District One.  Marvel from District One, Clove from two, and a couple others. 

Glimmer has her hands on the bow and arrows Katniss so desperately needs.  Get her the bow, and the Games are won.  I would have succeeded.  But how exactly do I get it?  I could steal it.  Maybe one night I could sneak in, and take it myself.  But what if they wake?  They will see me stealing, I am not fast, there is plenty of muscle to overpower me.  I can’t steal it. 

When I see her, I don’t immediately think “genius,” but I know tricking her would be a challenge.  Maybe I could separate her from the pack, jump her, or something, and take it for myself then find Katniss.

I could kill Glimmer.  Assuming I can make it to her, and stealthily take her out.  Strangle her, break her neck.  Then what?  I am not sure I am that silent. 

These bushes will only keep me hidden for a short time.  Think, Peeta, think!

The only option I see is make a pact with the careers.  This directly goes against Haymitch’s orders.  The careers are unpredictable.  There is the inevitable betrayal that will initiate a free-for-all amongst themselves.  It is the most risky.  It is the only option that guarantees direct contact with them without initial fighting.  But does it?  How do I know they could trust me?  How could I be so confident and presumptuous about them?  The other options have distance, subtlety, individualism.  They may not accept, and I die right then and there.  That will not help Katniss.  I am no good to her dead. 

I stand exposed in the bushes for far too long, and only just realize this when I feel an overpowering strike on my head.  I stumble out in open view of the Cornucopia, and the careers all gaze at me.  They only watch.  I feel their eyes on me, and fear for my life from them, but that is not as pressing of an issue as the one who just exposed me.

Behind me is Thresh, Cato’s equal in size from District Eleven.  He has a weapon.  A sword. 

Swish!  Slash!  The blade rings through the air.  Luckily I have had practice from getting hit over the head so many times.  It only takes that moment I stumble out in the open to catch my balance and awareness.  Thresh swings hard, and fast.  As soon as he pulls back a third time, my time spent at the hand-to-hand combat station came in handy.  Martial arts is a natural skill for me, I guess.

As his arm comes back down, I step in very close to his body, wrap my arm around his with the sword, and shift my bodyweight.  Thresh flies in the direction he swung, head over heels.  The sword falls to my feet, and I quickly recover it.  Thresh knows his mistake.  He sees his killer standing before him.  He sees the Careers advancing on us.  With his eyes wide open, he is at my mercy completely.  He is mine for the kill. 

Cato is smiling; he admired what I did. 

“Run,” I whisper to Thresh, without moving my lips.  He doesn’t understand what luck he has that day.  “Run,” I repeat myself a bit louder, tilt my head, and he is gone quicker than he came.  Through the bushes, he disappears like a phantom or a bad dream.  Only the thought of him lingers on.

The careers canter towards me without the intent to attack.  Clove has a knife in hand.  She holds it with the intent to throw, but Cato motions for her to lower the weapon.  Glimmer has an arrow on me, and Cato has to repeat the motion for her to obey.  His blonde hair is shorter than mine, glossy, maybe greasy, definitely blood lingering in on a few strands.  He has the confidence of a murderer. 

“Peeta, right?”  His voice is deeper than mine.  He is about a foot taller than I.  Built like a Peacekeeper.  His hair matches mine in color, and I can tell he means business.  I know, if he wanted me dead, I would be dead. 

“Cato, right?”  I return.  My sword falls to my side in my left hand.  He doesn’t make much movement, only has his hands on his hips.  There is plenty of blood on his clothes, and many other careers have the same stains.  They were made for this.  They were bred to compete in the Games. 

 “That was mighty impressive, Peeta.  I know you saw me during training, and I you.”  He takes a step closer, and I stand ready for anything.  “I would like to fight with you for the time being.  But I need something from you first,” he takes another step.  “I need something from you that proves that you trust me.  I am trusting you right now.  I am unarmed, and you have a sword.  Do you trust me?” 

I do only what I think is best for the survival of Katniss.  I need that bow, and this is the way to get it.  The only flaw in my plan earlier was, how will I escape?  How will I get the bow to Katniss without having the careers on my trail?  The odds aren’t in my favor.  Then again, I never counted on them being in my favor anyway.  I don’t have to worry about the two more reaping’s I have to endure anymore at least.

I hand Cato the sword.  He pats me on the chest.  “Good choice.”  We walk back to the Cornucopia.  It really was that simple.

I stack all of the bodies in one pile to keep the Capitol people away from us at all costs.  I am the one who does this.  The rest watch.  It is probably a test of loyalty.  That, or it is to protect themselves against me if I decide to attack.  The girl, Clove, never lets go of that knife.  She is good, I know.  She killed the boy who tried to take Katniss’ pack, and buried one in it as Katniss ran off.  She’s good, not perfect.  And Glimmer, I never saw her shoot.  For all I know she could be as inept as I, or as skilled at Katniss.  There is nothing I can do but bathe myself in the blood of the dead children I pile.  I count eleven.

As soon as I am finished with the chore, the familiar cannon booms eleven times.  A shot from the cannon marks the death of a tribute.  The first day, there is rarely shots heard until well into the first day of the Games.  Too much confusion as to who dies during the beginning.  It is best to just save it until things calm down.  Eventually hoover crafts will swoop in and take the bodies away.  Take them home to their families, and sort out the funeral rites there.

I sit near myself, and Marvel starts a fire.  The sun goes down leaving nothing but the crackling of burning pine to comfort us. 

They all talk like old friends.  I should have known, they are.  They all know each other, or recently came to know each other.  The careers are always consistent in who they socialize with during training and such.  Their pact is already decided for them.  They know well in advance the small alliances between their respective Districts.  Only how do they keep their respect for themselves?  How do they maintain loyalty to Panem through their bond?

“And what about you?”  Glimmer asks.  I have been so oblivious to their conversation, I forgot altogether that they were talking.  “What about me?”  I try to express my confusion.  “What is your story, loverboy?”  I don’t know exactly how to answer the question. 

“What do you want to know?” 

“What did you do before you were reaped?”  That answer is easy.  Surely they knew. 

“I was a baker.  I make bread, pastries, cakes.  It was a good living.”  They all seem intrigued at my previous skill.  I know having someone like me around is a foreign concept.  Food at all in this world is a luxury, and a food handler is like a giver almost.  They all had someone like me back in their Districts, I guess. 

“How did you throw a man twice your size?”  Marvel asks.  His voice is very skeptical.  There is no untruth to my story.  He bites into something, chewing audibly.

“I did most of the heavy lifting at the bakery.  I am strong, I guess.”  I take my cue from Katniss, and the many ways she tried to talk me up to Haymitch that morning.  They need to know that I am not a pushover. 

I worry that this is how they will better know how to kill me.  They probe me for answers to discover the safest, and most unsuspecting way to kill me.  They know I am strong, and face to face, can disarm a person twice my size.  Maybe they will try to poison me.

“I am good with food too.  I know everything there is to know about cooking.  I remember, when I was a kid, my folks accidently spoiled some good turkey by putting what they thought was good herbs in a marinade.  My mother found them out back, and assumed they were safe.  They weren’t.  If I wasn’t there when she was preparing the bird, we would have all died from eating a poisonous plant.”  I linger on the “poisonous” part.  Even thinking about spoiling good meat like that sounds like a crime.

They believe my lie.  I never tasted turkey, and my family sure as hell couldn’t afford one any time soon.  Besides, all of the turkey in District Twelve is wild, and technically illegal to eat.  It falls under poaching.  However, I can’t count the times I have seen Gale with one over his shoulder knocking at the doors of Peacekeepers to see if they would take it off his hands.  We all know they are his best customers.  Not only do they have the money to afford such rich taste, they are the law of the land there.  As long as they do something, it’s fine.  If I, on the other hand, do the same thing, it is a crime worthy of death.

Well at least I hope they won’t poison me now.  The only thing left is Clove, and Glimmer.  Clove is good.  Maybe I should keep my distance from her.  No, that’s not good enough.  If I will die, it will probably be from her. 

Cato trusts me.  I gave him a sword, and he gave me a spear.  At least I am part of the pack now.  There are seven in the pack together.  There’s Glimmer, Clove, Marvel, Cato, and myself.  A couple of others that I don’t pay much attention to.  There is the boy from three who is handy.  He rewires the mines from the spots all of the tributes stood on before the Games began.  To prevent an unfair start, there are mines rigged to go off if a tribute tries to step off before the sixty seconds are up.  I have never heard of doing this, but Cato has set him to work.  There is also a girl from four who refuses to speak.  I do not underestimate her.  She has earned her place here.  As have I. 

“What about you, Cato?”  I ask.  I don’t remember hearing much about him.  In fact, I have nothing on him.  I don’t know him. 

“What is _your_ story?”  He finishes swallowing some food.  I remember to eat what they offer.  It is safe. 

“I was born in District Two.  I worked in its main industry.  Stone masonry.  I hauled the stones from the quarry.”  I guess he has to have a story for the cameras as to why he is a giant.  That makes sense.  It is illegal to train tributes before they reach the Capitol.  It happens every year regardless.  Districts One Two and Four have for years.  Everyone knows, but no one cares.  The Capitol turns a blind eye to it. 

“I have family back home.  Two sisters.  Both younger.  My mother is a widow.  I grew up rather young, to put it lightly.”  I look up in his eyes, and see the hunger and desperation to live.  “I volunteered for them.  We are poor.  The winnings will feed them for the rest of their lives.  I didn’t plan on it, and quite frankly, I was looking forward to not being reaped, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do.”  He takes another bite of the food he is eating. 

He quickly changes the subject to avoid his weakness.  I can tell that he is not a monster.  He has an opportunity.  Had I looked at the Hunger Games as he has, maybe I would have volunteered.  Develop a training regimen with flour sacks, paid Gale to teach me to hunt, and volunteered when I was 18 like Cato.  I can only imagine what the winnings could buy.  Food, shelter, water for so many people.  It could save District Twelve from poverty.  It is what Peeta would do. 

“The guy you scrapped with earlier is Thresh.”  Cato explains. 

“District Eleven,” Clove chimes in. 

He is massive too.  Maybe a little taller than Cato now that I have gotten a good look at the both of them.  I try to remember all I can about him.  I don’t remember his score, but I remember his District’s industry is agriculture.  He will know what plants are safe to eat, what is poison, what is medicine.  He sure wasn’t interested in any form of alliance; the way he attacked me without hesitation.  He will be alone. 

I make a brief suggestion for the betterment of the group.  “In terms of adversaries, Thresh isn’t one.  He is a loner.  I would try and comb the woods first, and not worry too much about him.  He will make his presence known in due time.”  Cato considers my tactic.  Clove agrees, but is hesitant to say so.  Marvel and Glimmer are indifferent, the girl from four silent, and the boy from three hard at work. 

“By the way,” I ask again.  Where did Thresh go?  Where does that lead to?”  I ask anyone generally. 

Marvel speaks up first.  “Grasslands on the far side of the arena; as far as the eye can see.  The grass is as tall as my shoulder.  If starvation won’t kill him, the terrain will.”

This will be the way I get the bow to Katniss.  She is in the woods, I know.  It is exactly like the woods outside District Twelve; she is in her element.  Perhaps, we could find Katniss, and just as they are about to kill her, I take out Cato, and Marvel with the spear.  But that leaves Clove with the knives, and hopefully Katniss will be fighting Glimmer for the bow.  I can tell she is frail enough to lose a fight with Katniss. 

It’s not good enough.  There must be another way.  Too late, I already made the suggestion. 

“We should start tonight.  It is near dark.  There is a river over there,” Cato points in the direction of a large body of water.  “Fill up your canteens, and prepare to move out in ten minutes.” 

Cato has the command of a seasoned veteran.  I can’t believe he has had this kind of leadership experience from hauling rocks.  It wouldn’t make sense.  I have a hard time believing that the Hunger Games were never a part of his plan.

It is a battle for all of the careers to trust each other.  They are constantly glaring in each other’s direction, testing the other for intentions.  At least none of us trusts each other.  There is a deeper alliance between Glimmer and Marvel, as is with Cato and Clove.  As long as there is this tension, we are unstable.  A bomb ready to explode.  Just like the Capitol with its Districts almost.  Just like what happened with District Thirteen, comparably.  _So this is why Haymitch strongly advised I don’t pact with Careers._

We all move together, and don’t stop for the littlest inconvenience.  Cato leads, and I am by his side at all times.  He allowed me to carry a spear, and had no reason not to trust me.  He has the sword I gave him.  If I trust any of the careers it would be Cato.  For some reason we just agree. 

“Where are we going?”  Glimmer asks.  There is a hint of exhaustion in her voice. 

“We won’t stop for anything.”  Cato screams back, offering no effort at subterfuge. 

“Why are we in such a hurry?”  Marvel speaks up with Glimmer.  Neither of them are probably used to this kind of exercise.  I’m not.  I just suffer in silence, I guess. 

“I go crazy with each moment she lives,” Cato answers the two. 

“Who lives?”  I am afraid to, but my mouth moves before I can stop it. 

“Katniss!” 


	12. Chapter 12

It takes every bit of patience I have not to kill him right then and there.  Reason keeps me level headed.  “Why is that?”  I hope the question doesn’t register wrong to anyone.  It’s as if they forgot how madly in love I am with her, the girl on fire.

“Ever since she outscored me I couldn’t get her out of my head.”  At first it seems trivial, a stone mason from District Two caring so much about a number.  Well, after all, he is a career, District Two.  I don’t buy his phony story for a second.  They are all the same.  The boy with his sisters, his mother, a grown man, hoping for the best and willing to sacrifice his life, just seems so distant now.  The look in his eyes when he said her name, Katniss, It was the most terrifying thing I have seen in my life.  I never knew anyone who wanted to kill someone outright like that. 

But these are the Games, there are no survivors.  All but one must die, and in order for the one to win, twenty three will be delivered home bled white, and colder than snow. 

“What are you going to do?”  I ask.  All I can hope to do is stall Cato.  Maybe time will deplete the rage in his eyes for now.  Maybe he is just impulsive.

“I am going to find her, and that is where you come in.”  His steps quicken.  I can tell this topic excites him.  He finds joy in a girl’s death.  Fair enough. 

“What?  Where I come in?”  What is my part in her death?

“You are going to find Katniss for us.  Until then, none of you will sleep.”

My hand grasping the spear in my hand tighter, and tighter.  Every thought in my mind want to see him dead, and every follicle of hair stands on end for how I will behave in this alliance. 

It quickly reminds me of the time I wrestled in that competition.  The one I beat Gale at, and the one Katniss first acknowledged me at.  The one for school that she mentioned that morning we had a misunderstanding. 

My last opponent was my own brother, my elder brother.  He is about as strong as I, and has poor knees.  I was torn between winning and leaving him there on the ground, or allowing him to win.  He never advanced this far in the school’s wrestling competition before, and I thought there was no harm in losing. I let him win.  I knew it was better that way.  I could care less, and I did as he bragged all about school and elsewhere about his victory.  It meant something to him that it wouldn’t have to me. 

But that moment I had to decide when I was to make my fatal error, or topple him to the ground myself was one filled with the anticipation of a hard decision.  Both outcomes were present in my mind.  I could both win and enjoy all of the benefits it offers, or be compassionate and satisfied with myself. 

It cannot compare to this moment.  All I ever wanted was to keep Katniss alive.  All I ever hoped for was this.  That is what everything I have done in the past few days has come to.  That is what I am to do if I am not to live the rest of my life in a bottle like Haymitch, weeping on the shoulders of another year’s batch of tributes.  Living each moment in a haze of drunkenness and despair.  I also could live out the rest of my short life with what little humanity I have left. 

And if I were to die, I only want it to be by her hand.  Preferably at least, I know it’s a lot to ask.  Who knows, maybe she wants to kill me.  She never trusted me, and her reaction after my interview was enough for me to know her true feelings of me. 

Now that I know that I may never have a chance to tell her my intention, or any of my hopes, I begin to let its truth sink in.  There are only a few options left.  I could either lead him in the wrong direction, confront him, or help him. 

If I lead him in the wrong direction, it will only be a matter of time before he finds out what I am doing.  I suspect this will not last long at all.  Maybe a day, and then, he will punish me.  He will catch on.  I cannot assume he is stupid.  I have to assume he is as smart as I.  But if he is as smart as I, then why does he need me?

If I confront him, I will most likely die.  There is nothing else to say about that.  What chance do I have against a career?  Not only a career, but a pack of them?  I guess that should be a last case scenario.  My goal isn’t my survival; it’s Katniss’. 

I certainly cannot help him.  I don’t even need to argue why, given that it is counterproductive to my goals.  Well, maybe there is a chance somewhere that I will succeed.  I already think I know where she would be. 

I remember Gale would hunt in the woods outside of District Twelve.  Katniss was his partner.  It is reasonable to assume Katniss hunted in the woods as well.  There is plenty of evidence of this, given that she sold my father squirrel, which I know live in trees.  It would then be reasonable to assume she is hiding in her element, waiting to stalk her prey, and pick them off one by one. 

She doesn’t have a bow.  Well, I am sure she knows how to make one.  I have never seen her bow.  Maybe she made it herself.  If she could make her own bow back in twelve, what is to say she didn’t make one now, right here, in the arena?  She is hunting us. 

I know what I must do.  “Say, Cato,” I propose.  He stops a moment from his steady brisk tread.  “Katniss is handy with a bow.” 

He raises an eyebrow.  “Go on.  What is your point?”  I try to think my way through this suggestion without sounding like I am actually tricking him. 

“That is her only skill,” I bluff.  “She is practically a target without it.  I know she is hiding in the woods.  Why can’t we just go deeper in search of her?  I know she is there, I just know it.” 

Cato considers this for a brief moment.  He stares down at the ground, his eyes flickering; he almost lowers all of his defenses.  Glimmer, I can see, has the bow in her right hand, and the sling of arrows over her shoulder.  Those should be Katniss’. 

“We are close to the woods anyway.  Strange, Peeta, you seem like you’re helping me.”  He advances towards me in a way that makes me feel very threatened.  “Why?”

“I just want to go home.”  Cato considers my question for a brief moment, and continues forward.  Only now, he leads the careers deeper into the woods.  Perfect. 

I do now realize what I am doing.  The option which seemed impossible to do was the very answer in itself.  I will be leading the careers towards Katniss.  This is perfect.  No matter what happens, if she can hit a squirrel right in the eye, she can hit a career right in the forehead. 

Only, what of me?  What am I to do that I will appear to be working against her?  Will she forgive me?  Probably not.  Katniss doesn’t seem to be the least bit interested in me.  She should not be forgiving.  I don’t expect her to be.  Maybe I will be the one to get the arrow in my forehead first.  No matter.  As long as I have served my purpose towards her safety and wellbeing. 

The deeper we run into the woods, the more I come to appreciate it.  I never went beyond the fence in twelve, but I was able to see the woods from the fence.  It is amazing here.  The greens are so rich and bright, clashing with the violent brown of the tree bark and dirt.  Leaves from the trees fall and land over the needles and bits of wood that have collected for some time.  I have reason to believe that this once was not an arena.  This wasn’t just some creation. 

This place was a wilderness before the Capitol corrupted it.  This was the home of countless animals and beasts.  I can only imagine what the Capitol has done to the ecosystem to pervert its nature, and destroy the creature’s habitat. 

“You better be right about this,” I hear from Glimmer.  She is running to my left and behind me.  I have grown annoyed of her, personally.  The angle she played before the games was a sexy and innocent girl, but I cannot like her.  She played the angel well, but I know it was just that. 

There are probably plenty of sponsors who know she is phony as well as other tributes.  The problem with that is that I am not playing an angel, nor is Katniss.  If sponsors feel we are tricking them for their money based on the scheming of tributes before, that doesn’t help me nor Katniss.  It gets on my nerves the more I think about it. 

I only clench my spear harder and harder, marveling at how I managed to escape Thresh.  I guess it was what I learned on training day in the hand to hand combat section.  It was really fortunate I took the time to work on such a skill.  Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t care of course.  Also, I wanted to impress Katniss.  That must have played a role in my decision making.

“Rest for a moment,” Cato orders, “eat something.  It won’t be for long.”  He walks right up to me, and I am about to turn the other direction when he holds up to me a small packet of beef strips.  “Here,” he hands me.  I take them in my right hand, and examine them.  Looking for any sign that they might be poisoned.  “For your troubles, loverboy.”  I smell them.  They only smell like beef strips, and no one seems to notice this gesture.  I lay a small piece in my mouth, testing them for any hint of poison or a small clue that they have been tampered with.  I do notice Cato has a beef strip in his hand that he is munching on.  That doesn’t mean anything though.  I swallow the piece, and wait for any sign of poisoning.  There is none, and the other careers seem to be enjoying the break. 

Cato is actually being friendly to me.  Really?  It seems odd.  He gave me food.  Why?  “Hey, Cato?”  I call to him.  I put another in my mouth, and hand him the rest.  I laid my spear on the ground.  “You need something too.”  I try to return the favor.  He looks down, innocently enough, takes one, and eats it. 

We stand in silence for a moment before I feel it necessary to speak.  “So, what next?”  I ask him. 

“I don’t know,” he responds.  “I am only just trying to figure out how this arena operates.” 

I nod.  The sun has set, and the beautiful spectra of color paints the sky.  I point around, trying to make conversation.  “It doesn’t seem like there is anything to figure out.  The Capitol must have been lazy with this one.  It is just wilderness.  Much like the forests I see over the fence back home.”  I try to be careful about what I say.  I don’t think this part will be airing.  I have never heard a tribute talk about their home before during the games.  They usually begin, and the screen flashes to another tribute before any details are given. 

“Really?”  He asks, humoring the exchange.  I offer another strip, and he takes it.  “Back in two, it was all rubble,” he explains.  “The town was made out of imported wood, and everything else was a quarry.  I don’t know what forests looked like in person.  Much less the smell.” 

“The smell?”  It didn’t occur to me; the pine smell.  I usually smell it all the time, and don’t even think about it. 

“Yea, I have never smelled anything like this place.  It is warm, kind, inviting.  I forget that I am in the games when I smell the forest,” he explains. 

“I grew up with the smell.  Seems only natural to me.  Reminds me of home, you know?”  He looks over, and I have begun to forget the savage glare, and see those eyes as gentle.  He has family like I, and a goal towards obtaining like I. 

What makes me unique?  Why should I succeed?  I realize now that I am not fighting enemies, but children.  All are like me.  They all have families.  They all want to go home.  The horror of the games reveals itself.  What makes me so special and deserving?  Cato paces the small camp of us careers.  I have forgotten to care about who is here.  The only ones I notice anymore at the top four.  Cato, Glimmer, Marvel, and Clove.  I have grown to trust Cato.  He is a person, and I am sure the others, all of them are people too.  Just like me, they are people. 

I sit next to my spear, and finish the pack of meat.  The sun has set long ago, hours maybe.  Cato handed out a pair of glasses to Clove, and myself.  I wonder why he gave one to me.  Strange, he trusts me too.  I put on the glasses, and realize that I can see in the dark.  “Whoa,” I involuntarily mutter.  I cannot help but just stare in awe at the forest in complete perfect brightness with the glasses. 

“Give me that!”  I hear from Glimmer.  She takes the glasses right off my face, and I don’t protest.  I know it could cost me my life if I did.  She wears them for a while. 

“Go, lead the way.”  Cato orders us to stand, and patrol the forest in the dark.  I know his purpose in this.  He want to find tributes sleeping on the ground. 

I try and hope that Katniss has sense to either be awake, or in a tree somewhere.  I hope we don’t find her tonight.  She is most vulnerable now. 

“Wait,” I hear from Clove.  “Look, that way, Glimmer!”  She points to something in the distance I cannot see.  It is too dark.  “Smoke!” 

Oh no.  Please, Katniss, don’t do this to me now!  The careers sprint toward the smoke stack, and I can now see it just about twenty yards out.  Please, Katniss.  Don’t be this stupid! 

The careers corner the young girl, and she screams.  It is foreign, and sounds nothing like Katniss.  It is someone else.  Someone stupid enough to light a fire.  Someone who will die.  I can’t make out her face, but still I am beyond sure that it isn’t her. 

Marvel takes a knife, and stabs her three times, yelling each time.  He pulls out the knife the last time, with the spray of blood on his face, laughing.  I hold my spear with both hands.  I am concerned for a moment at the manner he is responding to the kill.  Celebratory.  Bloodthirsty. 

What happens next is too difficult to describe over the shock of murder.  Cato along with the other nameless tributes clean the camp, taking all of the supplies and few weapons around the fire.  We march on, me at the tail end, still concerned about the poor girl who is now dead. 

“Twelve down and eleven to go!” Clove yells out. 

“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking,” Marvel adds.  I can tell he is very proud of the kill.  We continue, and I make it to the middle of the career pack before Cato questions Marvel. 

“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”  He turns to Marvel immediately, halting the pursuit. 

“I’d say yes.  Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately.”  Glimmer flips her hair, and I can’t help but cringe at her pathetic attempt for attention. 

“Unless she isn’t dead,” Cato’s voice rises toward Marvel.  I can tell he is not willing to let this slide.  He needs to go home to his little sister.

“She’s dead, I stuck her myself.” 

“Then where’s the cannon?”  Cato steps closer into Marvel’s space, and a fight is about to ensue.  I cannot have this now.  Not now in the dark when I and Katniss are most vulnerable. 

“Someone should go back.  Make sure the job’s done.”  Clove adds this as she knows what will happen if this continues to escalate. 

“Yeah, we don’t want to track her down twice.”  Cato mumbles this and turns away from Marvel. 

“I said she’s dead!”  Marvel’s anger is about to erupt.  This is it.  I will go, and do it myself. 

“We’re wasting time!  I’ll go and finish her and let’s move on!”  I yell this, and push through the nameless tributes behind me, back to the still glowing embers of the fire. 

It only takes a moment to walk back to the camp, and find the young girl.  I am concerned the careers will ambush me at any moment, until I hear the whimper of her.  Dammit.  I begin to cry as I move closer. 

“Hello?”  I call.  I feel a lump growing, and guilt taking me.  I hear her crawling away and crying in complete fear.  “You are in pain.”  I walk closer and closer, and she desperately crawls away in fear.  Blood is pouring out of her mouth.  There is nothing I could do. I take her hands in my left, and pull her towards my feet.  Only then when I see the fear in her eyes do I begin crying as well.  “It will be over soon, okay?”

She nods, and I plant my spear in her head.  I silently weep at this horrendous act.  I sit a moment, observing the still erect spear in the head of an innocent girl who had an unlucky day at the reaping. 

This is it.  The cannon goes off.  I am a murderer now.


	13. Chapter 13

Dawn breaks on the third day in the arena.  I don’t know how long we have been walking, only that my legs are sore, and the other nameless tributes are complaining.  “When will we do this,” and “when will we do that?”  They say.  I don’t know how long we have been walking, but it has been since the sun set. 

How many hours is it until dusk to dawn?  I don’t know.  Cato pushes and pulls some of the slower tributes to keep them moving, reminding them that there can only be one victor; their lives are only continuing by his courtesy, and he plans to be the last one standing in the end. 

Over my left shoulder, I could see more light other than the rising sun.  I don’t seem to recall this arena having more than one light sources.  I thought this arena was natural.  I remember that in the past there have been a few that did.  It was a tool the Gamemakers at the time used to disorient the tributes. 

There is light that is distracting us all.  I turn to look at the shining source just as the rest of my fellow tributes.  A wall of fire descends like a flock of eagles that soar overhead.  I am taken aback at first by the beauty, and then, I am frightened. 

“Run!”  Glimmer yells in response, and she takes off ahead.  Cato follows her in like manner, as does Clove and Marvel.  The arrows!  Those are the tools that will save Katniss, I cannot let them run off into the wilderness and possibly be lost forever.  I need to get those to Katniss, she needs those arrows!  As much as Glimmer annoys me, I have to follow her.

Abandoning the rest of the career pack, I take off for the other four, spear in hand, sprinting through the woods. 

They do not stop, nor do they slow, nor do they even take sips of water or rest momentarily.  They just keep running even as the smoke billows in the trees.  My lungs quiver with each inhalation of the polluted air we all breathe.  I can hear their coughing about ten yards ahead of me.  I follow that sound.  The fire has only grown more violent since our initial discovery; it billows and shoots at us in an eerie way.  It is probably being controlled by some sick pig back in the Capitol, whose job it is to make the torture and torment of children more entertaining for the masses watching. 

I can see all their faces now.  The people of the Capitol.  I can only imagine the looks of horror and excitement on their faces as they watch each of us, individual and in group form, fight off the inferno behind us.  There probably are a few children who will be consumed by the flames, and or injured at the very least.  I wonder if the controller’s job is to kill us in mass, or only scorch us.  Probably the latter.  It won’t be terribly exciting to see running children obliterated in this manner.  There is no tension, no build-up like there have been in the past games.  Each tribute dies off one by one at this stage, never in mass.  They want to give the audience time to place bets and lots on who will be killed when, in what way, at what time, during what phase of the games.  Makes me sick.  I couldn’t even handle watching the cock fights back in District Twelve.  Back at the Hob, there was a group of older men and women, not so old as to be considered elderly, but beyond their years of youth, who would gather the two largest roosters they could find, close them in a small circle, and provoke them to fight each other until the death.  I always thought of it as a disgusting a cruel practice, and would be very confused when they would participate in that act while condemn the Capitol each year as they took their children away to compete in the Hunger Games.  I always thought of them as hypocrites the very least.  I am not comparing the chickens to the lives of children, but I think the principle still stands.  Why would you be pleased at the death of a rooster, and mourn for the death of a child?  If that question is right or not, I doubt I will find out. 

“Cato!”  I yell through my gagging.  The smoke has grown to such a degree that I can barely see my hand in front of me.  I took my jacket I was wearing, and threw it over my head to shield my eyes and mouth from the smoke.  “Cato, are you there?” 

The footsteps and coughing has ceased, but I know that they are there somewhere. 

Suddenly, I feel the urgent need to fear.  I am disoriented, vulnerable, and helpless.  I cannot see nor breathe, and am at the entire mercy of the careers.  Did they plan this?  Do they still have need of me?  What will they do now?  It is calming to remember that Cato needs me to find Katniss for him, and as long as I prolong that utility, my life should be protected, but what if they come to see me as another mouth to feed?  What if they discover that Katniss may be completely helpless without the tools she requires?  Will they then be done with me, and take pleasure in my death? 

My chest burns as I feel the frightening and unexpected flash of fire shooting in the most artificial way one could imagine it.  This was planned.  This was orchestrated.  “Damn!”  I yell as I feel the charred skin.  It is painful, yes, but it is not nearly enough to cause me distress of any kind.  It is a mild annoyance at the worst. 

The shirt I am wearing is scorched, but not bad.  I can only imagine who this is for. Why would an entire wall of fire be necessary?  Would it be because of Thresh?  We aren’t being pushed in any direction.  Maybe Katniss?  But why? 

Just keep walking, Peeta.  Maybe you will find favor in them.  Maybe you will live to see another sunrise. 

Whatever the case, I have to escape this plume of smoke.  Everywhere I jog, it is only just as thick as it was before.  I am not running into more or less smoke.  It is a constant cloud. 

I have to stop a moment, I hear the faint sound of water, like a small stream or a river is nearby.  Perfect.  I could get a drink, refresh myself, and wash out my hair and eyes. 

Where am I?  Where is everyone? 

I try and open my eyes just barely, to see how potent the air is.  From the view of things, I can make out a tree just about ten feet away.  Smelling is useless at this point; my lungs and senses are so corrupted by the floating ash. 

“Hello?”  I call out to the openness.  “Cato?  Are you there?”  I throw my jacket back on, feeling no pain in my eyes any more than before.  Seeing is still a useless sense at this point.

Footsteps startle me though I should have expected them anyway.  “Peeta,” Cato responds.  “I’ve been looking for you, there is a small cave that is shielded from the smoke near a river.  Follow me.”  He leads me along the way with his arm around my shoulder.

I take my spear, and follow as before.  He jogs just as before, at a speed nearly fast enough for me not to keep up, but with all of the strength left in my legs, I carry on.  After a minute of jogging, the smoke begins to clear just enough to see the creek that appears to cross through the arena.  I don’t know how long it is, but I know that it has an end.  All these arenas do.  They all end somewhere. 

The rock formation he leads me to is riddled with small pores of caves everywhere.  “In here,” I hear from Glimmer.  Turning to her, Cato already knows where the cave is.  After he squeezes through the mouth, I join to find Glimmer sitting next to Clove, and Marvel and Cato sit across from them.  I take my seat, back facing the mouth of the cave.  Clove is nibbling on something I am pretty sure she grabbed from the Cornucopia the day the Games began.  “So,” she begins, “do you think Twelve made it out?” 

I didn’t realize she directed that question towards me until I saw four pairs of eyes burning a hole through my forehead.  “Oh, uh, well Katniss is very resourceful.  It is my guess that the fire has put her in an advantage,” I bluff.  I know I am good at it, but I think whether or not they believe me, they will question.  Truth be told, I don’t know where she is, but I know my job, and I know that if I cannot perform my duty as they expect, they may just see me as another mouth to feed. 

“I don’t believe you, and here’s why,” Marvel interjects in a way that makes this conversation seem rehearsed.  “Katniss couldn’t have had anything to do with this fire.  Did you see the flames of that thing?”  I shake my head, turning from face to face.  All eyes are on me.  “Well I did.  What I saw was a fire in control.  Fires don’t burn in the way we want them, even when we try.  This fire literally moved so unnaturally the only explanation could be it was being controlled.  Katniss couldn’t have anticipated it.  In fact, I think she is dead like the rest of the pack.”

“You’re making that whole thing up,” I chuckle.  “If anyone died, we would be able to hear the cannons.  The shot of a cannon couldn’t have possibly been blotted out by the roar of any fire.  Do you really think I’m that stupid, Marvel?”  I question, growing slightly angry and annoyed myself.  I stand up, shake my head, and look towards Cato for any support.  He just looks on in the smoky haze.  “I mean, if that is your presupposition of me, how do you think I am even smart enough to track her?  Even if I was her twin brother, if I was as dumb and gullible as you think, you’d be hopeless in finding her!”  I pause, waiting for a rebuttal from anyone, hear none.  “Now, you trust me to find her; that is my job.  Let me do it, and do not question my knowledge on the topic.  I say she is alive.  No, I say she is better than alive, so much so, in fact, she is already tracking us right now.”

They sit in silence at my outburst, weighing every possibility of my words.  I can tell that they trust me far more than what is in their best interest.  I can tell I am too big a part of their plan to simply kill me off prematurely.  They have to trust me, they just have to. 

“Okay,” Cato begins, he turns toward the pack, “if that is the case, we better move before the smoke subsides.  I say we all get some rest for a few hours while one of us stands guard.  I will take the first watch.  By midday, we will be off, okay?” 

They all nod in agreement, probably for no better reason than we all were tired and in no mood to be conspiring to kill each other at this moment.  It is not that stage of the Games.  It is too soon for backstabbing and betrayal.  Get some sleep, careers and all. 

“Hey!”  I hear just as my eyes begin to become heavy.  “It’s me, let me in!”  One of the stragglers enters the cave, bringing with her a plume of smoke and ash smell.  Her coughing echoes through the small space in a frightening and annoying way.  I sit up holding my spear in the left hand. 

“Where are the others?”  Cato asks as he peers inside after the Career.  I don’t remember her name, nor the District she is from.  I only remember her face. 

“I don’t know.  We got separated.” 

“Good,” Clove bursts.  Her voice echoes from the walls, ringing in my ears.

“What do you mean good?  They’ll die in that smoke!  I almost did.” 

“Too bad you didn’t.”  Clove sounds cold, but I understand her attitude. 

“Why are you that way?  How can you say that?” 

“Because this is the Hunger Games.  I plan on winning this thing.  That means they have to die.  You have to die.  Everyone in this cave and out there has to die.  Don’t you get it?  My goal is to see all your faces white and blank.  I want that.”  She reclines against the side of the cave she sits on, preparing to sleep.  “Hearing the news of someone dying, dead, lost, hungry, injured, whatever, is good news.  It is music to my ears.  I enjoy it.  It means I am that much closer to home.  I want to go home.  I dance at the sound of the cannon.” 

The cave is silent.  I don’t know what to think about that.  It is like Clove vocalized my very thoughts about this thing.  I know that was the truth, and that is our disposition, but the blunt manner which she described the Games makes it that much more real.  That is what it means to be in the Hunger Games.  Death is celebrated, and no one is victor until the others lose. 

Clove has a mother and a father, I assume.  She may even have brothers and sisters, extended family that want to see her safe and at home.  Cato has his sister to look for, Glimmer, well, I am sure someone out there likes her.  And Marvel, I guess he has a family that loves him too.  What makes anyone here special?  What is more noble the cause in this situation?  We are all the same here; the only enemies I have, or anyone in this cave, this arena have are those that the Capitol gives us.  Katniss’ cause is noble.  My cause to see her home is noble.  Cato wanting to give his sisters a better life is very noble.  None of us are special, I am realizing that.  Had I been from District Two, I would be trying to save Clove not Katniss.  I wouldn’t even care for her, hell, I probably would like her just as much as I like Clove.  What am I doing, thinking that this is the world against me?  This is the world against Cato, Clove, Marvel, Glimmer, Me, Katniss, Rue, Thresh, and everyone else. 

Whoever’s idea this was, whoever could have conceived so base a crime should be commended.  Not for the nobility of their idea, but for the inhumanity of it.  I never thought, until now, that there was anything wrong with anyone but myself.  It was Peeta that gave up on his humanity, not the other Tributes, or so I thought.  No, that is not the case.  That is true for the whole twenty four of us.  We all gave up on our humanity the moment our names were called on reaping day.  We had to.  We didn’t have a choice.  Our fates have been sealed in the static of that microphone.  Clove did.  Glimmer did.  Hell, I did.  Maybe even Katniss.  That is the nature of the Games I guess.  No one really wins.  There are victors, but no one really wins.  Then I guess no one really even lives after the Games either.  If anyone is testament to that, it is Haymitch.  Just a picture of the guy, and you can see the different look on his face before and after his Games.  Even though he lived through the difficult life of being from District Twelve, he had something in his eyes that he doesn’t anymore.  In the moment on the train he screamed out the name, “Maysilee,” I knew.  As I washed the vomit off of his chest, I totally forgot I see his face on the town square screen every year at the Victory Tour.  That is the same man that has the biggest smile for Panem on screen, and drowns his guilt in a bottle, falling off of reaping stages the next.  He is the product of victory.  He is the epitome of success in Panem.  He didn’t win the Games, he survived.  No one wins the Hunger Games; they survive. 


	14. Chapter 14

I force myself awake at the sound of conspiring voices.  I could swear I heard my name, but I must have been dreaming it.  No one is talking.  Cato is simply looking out the mouth of the cave as he did before, and everyone is sound asleep.  It is far past midday.  I don’t know what he is waiting for. 

Cato sits like a statue.  He is both strong and vulnerable in his own rite.  Before the Games, during the training when I saw his head shot, I saw a monster.  When I saw his anger a few days ago, I saw a monster.  I saw someone who only wanted to win for the sake of winning.  I had no idea who Cato was; I had no idea, just like me, he has a purpose here in these Games.  He too is fighting for someone. 

“Cato,” I say as I take a similar position next to him at the mouth of the cave. 

“Peeta.”  He responds as I began, not caring to look in my direction.  Back home, in District Twelve, I am sure there is a scenario where we would be friends.  He seems like a hard worker, and I bet he would have been welcomed in the bakery. 

“You should get some sleep, Cato.  You’re not going to last long on fumes.” 

He chuckles sinisterly like that is what he hoped I would think.  I am sure he has trained for this very scenario, and countless others back at his District’s training facility.  “Peeta, I don’t trust a single one of you enough to even blink with both eyes,” he explains.  “I will get all the sleep I need in phase three of the Games.” 

“Phase three?”  I question.  I have never heard anything like that before.  I have no idea what he could be alluding to. 

“Yea, see there are five phases to the Hunger Games.  Back home, there are people who spend their whole lives studying the Games so they could teach the Tributes.  See, there are five parts.  The first is the initial carnage at the Cornucopia.  Part two is the alliance phase where the Career Pack forms as do other minor factions between certain tributes.  This is part two.” 

I rub my bald chin, and realize that it has been days since I bathed, but I couldn’t tell.  I guess I have grown used to the smell of body odor from the people I am currently allied with.  The realization, however, makes the stench more noticeable.  “What is phase three?” 

His smile widens a little, and he looks directly at me.  “That is the betrayal.  There is always someone who starts it, but as soon as that little fracas for power or food, or even just watch times breaks, everything falls apart, and no one is your ally.  That is phase three.  Something as simple as eating berries could damn us all.”  His tone softens as to not rouse or allow anyone to eavesdrop in on our conversation.  Such a delicate agreement between these children, all of whom plan on winning, and the only way to win is through the death of everyone present, could crumble at just the mention of its frailty.  “That is when I will sleep.  I will find some place, or tree, or cave such as this, and hide out for days until the number of Tributes has dimmed to only a small handful.  Then I will hunt.”

“Why are you telling me this?”  It is a fair question.  It makes no sense for him to tell me any of his plan.  The whole point of a “master plan” is that you are the only one orchestrating the event or knowing any of its key components.  Now I know.  Now it’s not a secret. 

“Because, Peeta, I saw what you did to Thresh the first day.  I have seen your willingness, and I know you know the price of life.  I mean the fact that you are so willing to just throw everything away regarding Katniss just so you can survive with us.  I like that.  That is something I can trust,” he pauses, “for now.  My suggestion for you is that when phase three initiates, I want you with me.  And hear me out, I do not try anything and neither do you.  We wait out until there is only a few tributes left, and in the end, it is you and me.  Heck, if you can take Thresh, there is a fighting chance against me.  I will be the first to tell you that.”  He smiles gently at me.  I can almost trust him, but should I?  “What do you say?”  He holds out his right hand for me to shake, to conclude the contractual agreement. 

“Kato, you never told me about stages four and five.” 

“Right,” he rubs his nose with the first two fingers on his right hand, knowing that the deal is not over on his part.  “Part four, the last few tributes are weeded out either amongst each other or against the Career.”

“And five?” 

“The Victor is chosen.”

“By who?” 

“Whoever wants it most, Peeta.  Whoever has earned it.” 

I stretch out my right hand, feeling again one more piece of Peeta Mellark escaping my body as our two palms meet and ritualistically shake to signify the agreement of two parties.  “Deal.  I don’t try anything and neither do you.”

“And if you do,” he pauses before releasing my hand, I thought the shake was over and loosened my grip, but he held on harder than necessary.  “I will kill you.” 

Making eye contact with someone while they make such a violent threat is herculean, but somehow I manage.  “I understand and agree.” 

“Good.” 

Many silent moments follow as we both wait for the sun to fall, but it only lingers on and on in the sky, not bright enough to make it painful or even hard to stare at.  In fact, it appears suspended closer in the sky than it does in real life.  It is probably a projection and not even real in its own way.  On second though now, I doubt that anything here is naturally occurring or even slightly regular.  Everything in sight must have been a carefully orchestrated plan by someone; the Gamemaker.  Crane.  I would admit this forest, this whole place seemed normal and natural like a piece of corrupted nature.  Now I’m not sure. 

We start walking a bit as soon as everyone gets up.  I don’t wear my jacket, I just have it strapped around my waist in case anything more regarding smoke and fire causes me to need to cover my face quickly.  I doubt something like that will repeat itself. 

After the others woke, we headed out in the direction of the sun, which is deep in the woods.  I completely lost my way in respect to the river the cave was next to.  It is probably not far off to my left.  Anyway, given the agreement with Cato, I do my best to stay close to him.  He always takes point in these marches as he did before since the beginning of the Games.  This time, I stand right next to him, spear in hand.  I remember the tune, the mockingjay tune.  The one I remembered from a long time ago, and was only reminded after seeing Katniss’ pin. 

_“Are you, are you, coming to the tree,_

_Where they hung up a man who said murdered three?”_

Kato raises an eye to me reciting a small poem.  “What are you saying?”

_“Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met here at midnight_

_In the hanging tree.”_

“What is that?”  Glimmer asks.  I can tell she thinks it is beautiful, but I doubt she would still feel that way if she really thought about the lyrics. 

“I don’t remember who said it.  It was a man back in the Seam in District Twelve.  The mockingjays sang the tune as well.  It was really something to listen to in whole.”  I doubt this part of the conversation would be aired to all of Panem.  I know they don’t want us to know about the other Districts.  I have learned so much about them all.  “He was a poor man, I know that.  I don’t think I have seen or heard him since I was a little boy, probably before I was even enrolled in school back home.”  My memory passes back to that very moment, standing near the electric fence after I got lost one day.  I didn’t know where I was.  “It is my first memory, I was standing near a big electric fence, and I just heard it.”

I pause a minute, knowing that I may be going too far.  The poem in full has many stanzas, and they tell a horrifying story I don’t remember.  I only remember singing it the way the man did one day back at the Bakery, and the Baker warned me to never sing it again.  The Peacekeepers won’t like it.  That bit is the only remaining piece of the poem I remember.  Funny.  I never thought too hard about it until now. 

“Go on,” Clove adds.  I can tell this is the only entertainment they have had since the initial fight at the Cornucopia. 

“Well, a few days, back near the huge electric fence of my District, I could hear him singing it.  I don’t know where he was, but I heard it.  The most hauntingly beautiful song I ever heard in my life.  The poem in full is about a criminal, a murderer who is madly in love with a woman.  This is my interpretation at least.  He is so in love with her, he knows that they could never be together in this world because of the horrible things he did. He was hanged, and his spirit haunts the woman, calling her back to the hanging tree where he died, lulling her to do the only thing that will bring them back together.  Hang herself.”

“What, are you some kind of artist or something?  Who cares?  It’s just a stupid poem,” Glimmer barks.  “That is the kind of thing the Capitol hates.”  She spits in the dirt.  “Empty words that give people like us hope.”

“I think that’s the point,” I say.  “Whenever I draw or sketch something, even when I am decorating a cake, or even writing something, I feel myself escape somewhere.  I feel release.  That is the point, not necessarily hope.”  My defense of the art may be futile.

“Who cares?  It’s not like you’re going to wake up from all the pain and horror in this world or some fictitious one, just because that poem was sung.  It’s not like it’s a spell or anything.  They are useless words that won’t put food on the table.”  She grips the bow harder with each word.  I wonder why she so adamantly hates the arts.  Not my problem, I guess. 

The steps that follow were silent as they all contemplated what I just said.  I know that that was a very horrible thing to start a conversation with, and they probably think I am crazy at least.  But regardless, it was something.  I know that this will probably be the only time they will get to know me or even talk casually.  Our goal is to kill each other after all.  We all want to win. 

Is it that horrible?  The poem, it is a piece of art, and a piece of my childhood.  Before the girl with the braids, I rushed to that fence to listen for the man singing that poem.  That was what I hoped for every day.  In a way, I guess I am the man at the hanging tree.  Maybe I am already dead, and I am just cooing myself to come to the tree to end all with my humanity.  That is what music does, I guess.  It is the relatability that makes music beautiful.  Sure, a tune is necessary and a rhythm enjoyable, but unless a clear message from musician to listener is passed along, it doesn’t mean anything.  A human, even in its most primitive state could recognize a tune or pattern of sounds.

Now here I am in an arena.  It is my goal to see the death of twenty three children, and I am thinking about a long forgotten poem from my childhood wondering where everything went wrong with my life.  I am ridicules. 

“What’s that?”  I hear it too, not just Glimmer.  I hear the sound of footsteps, and heavy breathing.  My hands grip the spear, pointing it in front of me, expecting to see either Thresh, or one of the straggling tributes who may think they have a fighting chance against us. 

“It went that way!”  Cato yells.  He takes off in a full sprint, and I follow. 

Shuffling of feet, and something else.  A small voice, probably in pain shrieks.

As fast as my legs can carry me, I take off ahead of me, right next to my partner in conspiracy, Cato.  Both arms swinging, spear flopping in my left hand in an unsafe manner.  Gosh I hope the Baker isn’t watching.  If he is, he would be swearing at the way I am running with a sharp object. 

I hear the steady breathing of the person we may be pursuing.  I hear it growing closer and closer.  It is injured, whoever it is, and then I realize.  I did my job brilliantly.  I did just what the Careers wanted me to.  I did what I didn’t plan to.  This whole time, I promised myself that if I could, I would make Katniss win.  If it was in my power to control, she would be the one to live.  She has her sister and mother to take care of. 

Looking up in the tree, all I could think about is that poem.  The sinister calling from the dead man to his lover, “are you coming to the tree?”  That is where we are.  That is where I am.  Staring up a tree with the other careers, looking up at her in a tree, the girl with the braids.  Katniss.  I led them right to her.  Strange things did happen here.  No stranger would it seem if we met here at midnight in the Hanging Tree.


	15. Chapter 15

“How’s everything with you?”  Katniss calls down so calmly, a shiver runs down my spine.  Why is she so relaxed?  Does she have a plan?  She must.  I bet she made a bow and arrow herself, and she is just drawing us in to kill us easier.  Kill me. 

“Well enough, yourself?”  Cato calls up in just as calm and collected a tone.  He gives me this look of uncertainty, but anger growing, boiling over, he wants her head, I can tell.  He will act irrationally when given the chance. 

“Maybe if you climb after her,” I whisper under my breath, hoping Katniss cannot hear or notice I am trying to communicate with Cato.  The other careers don’t notice either.  Cato hears my suggestion and nods to me like a partner. 

“The air’s better up here.  Why don’t you climb on up?”  Katniss reads my mind, and I can tell this idea grows on Cato and the careers. 

“Here, take this, Cato.”  Glimmer hands him the arrows and bow.  The bow!  That was my mission!  That is what I am supposed to get to her! 

“No,” he responds, “I will do better with my sword.”  He climbs up willingly.  The branches are too weak to hold his weight, but Katniss is the size of a small animal in comparison to Cato.  He towers over me, and probably be taller than Gale. 

Crack!  The branch he reaches for snaps like a twig, and down he goes.  Cato slams into the ground, flat on his back, and the surface shakes at his landing.  I hear a laugh from above in the tree in response.  I want to as well with the small victory.  Katniss, at the moment is safe.  I know that.

Glimmer raises the bow, I can see out of the corner of my eye.  At first, I flinch thinking that she is pointing it at me, but no.  She is firing up in the tree.  To Katniss’ luck, I doubt she has even used a bow and arrow until now.  Even if it was me she was pointing the weapon at, I doubt she would be able to shoot straight enough at this close quarter.

Oh, but what about me?  I am now of no need of them!  I am expendable.  I cannot die yet.  I need to ensure, no, see those arrows and bow in Katniss’ hands!  That needs to happen first.  Maybe, just maybe I can prolong the stay here.  Maybe I can buy some time.  “Oh, let her stay up there.  It’s not like she’s going anywhere.  We’ll deal with her in the morning.”  The bluff, like most, were accepted generally, and I see a nod of agreement from Cato even. 

I am just guessing he is injured and needs a rest.  He is only human after all.  Even the Careers’ are mortal I guess. 

Some of them are already preparing to camp here for the night without any permission except my suggestion.  I wonder how much time I bought.  What will she be able to do to save herself tonight? 

Get some sleep.  Get some sleep.  I lean against the tree Katniss is hiding in.  Though it is quiet, and I know the others are far past sleepy, and nearly droning by their fatigue, I can hear the soft whimpers from the tree.  I can hear pain.  Is Katniss injured?  Was it the fire?  I know that she is fast and agile, but maybe I have been overestimating her in these Games.  Maybe she really does need my help for something more than insurance.  Come to think of it, before the Games, in the Capitol, she seemed and appeared helpless.  I only thought her silence was strength, but maybe she is just as hopeless as I am. 

Katniss, after all, isn’t a warrior.  She is a child, like I am.  She is vulnerable and just as much a victim as anyone else.  Sure she hunts.  Sure she knows how to use a weapon.  If Cato can expose his own humanity, who can’t?  I wish I knew her before.  I wish I had the courage to just say “hi” once. 

Looking back at the pack, I can see that all of them, including Cato have drifted off to sleep.  So much for not trusting anyone to blink with both eyes.  He’s out.  All of them appear as nothing more than scared, frightened children fighting for their lives.  I grip my spear tighter knowing all of them have the urge to survive.  Marvel and Glimmer, Cato and Clove, the nameless girl from a District I cannot remember, they all want the same thing.  I am the only one that is different.  I am the only one with a purpose that is even slightly selfless and altruistic.  Maybe that is what I have come to.  I am Peeta Mellark.  I am a human being.  Just as easily corruptible as the next person.  Just as Clove was pleased to hear of the possible death of the other tributes during the fire, it showed who she was.  It shows what each and every one of us are capable of.  It shows that we are no better.  Though we are victims, we let our victimization determine who we will be as a result.  I wish I could show them that they don’t own me!  I wish they could see who we are!  The only reason these Games exist was a war none of us fought!  I didn’t take part in it!  How I wish that these Games were like Panem altogether.  Panem needs a phase three.

Maybe I killing that poor girl who lit a fire some nights ago really was an act of kindness from my part.  Her death was inevitable, and I simple ended her suffering. 

Loosening the grip around the spear, I turn around to face the tree, carelessly wrap my arms around it, whispering, “It will be okay, Katniss.  Everything will be okay.  I promise.” 

My body gives up slowly as I too drift off in a hopeless slumber. 

The strangest dreams commence the deeper and longer I am asleep.  First, I see the face of Cato slowly morphing to something.  I can’t describe what, but the longer his face stares at me, his mouth draws out forward into a snout, his eyes bead and shrink, and his ears grow to a point.  I don’t know why I would dream such a thing, but I do.

My body convulses and I wake up, my arms still holding the tree.  I turn around to see the career pack sound asleep including Cato.  I can’t remember I made an agreement with the Tribute who wants nothing more than to see the girl with the braids dead. 

My head leans against the trunk, I pull my spear to my hands. 

The dreams come a second time, only this time, it feels more real.  I hear the man singing the poem about the hanging tree, remembering every stanza like I just heard it as a small child. 

“ _Are you, Are you_  
Coming to the tree  
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three  
Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree

 _Are you, Are you_  
Coming to the tree  
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee  
Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree

 _Are you, Are you_  
Coming to the tree  
Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free  
Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

 _Are you, Are you_  
Coming to the tree  
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.  
Strange things did happen here,  
No stranger would it be,  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

Katniss’ body swings from the tree, hanging from a hangman’s noose.  I am holding her bow and arrows, waiting for her body to come back to me, only I walk away willingly. 

My eyes flutter open, and I take a deep breath.  It is morning, and still, none of the careers are awake.  I don’t bother to move.  Something inside of me tells me not to.  I don’t even bother to look up at Katniss to make sure she is safe.  I somehow know that everything regarding Katniss will work out, however it will. 

My hands calmly and slowly grip my spear as I begin to realize the truth of my disposition.  I really have no idea what will become of me as soon as the careers wake up to see my task complete.  They will only see me as a stumbling block between them and their victory.  I am useless at this point.  Katniss is here.  They can see her, they could hit her with a stone.  She is found. 

I only wait for them to make the first move, I doubt I can truly trust Cato.  Maybe this is the beginning of Phase three.  The beginning of the first initial betrayal that will send the fragile group into a crumbling anarchy.  That is today.  That will happen. 

Somehow, someway, I need to get those arrows in Katniss’ hands.  I need to get her the bow, but how?  I don’t know.

Looking up, slowly, and gently, I can see Katniss, but not in the same spot she was last night.  I don’t think she knows that I am staring up at her.  When I do, I cannot help but be taken aback by her, even in the arena.  She is beautiful even here and even now.  I cannot explain why. 

I don’t know what she is doing, it looks like she is cutting a branch of some sort.  Could it be some kind of distraction?  Why would she be doing that?  I don’t know why. 

The branch appears to be connected to something though, something big.  I can hear the serrated side of the blade running back and forth gently across the branch she is cutting.  The sound is a bit different than what I remember of what a saw sounded like.  This kind was a bit organic, like it is the sound of, oh.  Oh, no.  The branch is connected to a mass of something I can only assume to be a huge beehive.  No, this is the Hunger Games, it is something much much worse than that. 

Katniss, you’re brilliant!   This is it.  This is the initiation of Phase three.  As soon as the hive falls, I am out of here.  To hell with Cato’s agreement!  They will surely be taken by the swarm of bees, wait, tracker jackers!  That’s right.  That’s even worse actually.  They can be fatal.  That is it.  The hive will fall, and they will still be asleep when the jackers attack, it being too late for them to survive.  They will all surely die, and Katniss will have the bow and arrows after all.  Mission complete.  My work here is done.  Just get out as soon as the branch snaps so I don’t die as well.  Okay.  That’s it. 

I wait, and I wait for the constant buzzing, and the sound of sawing to cease, followed by a branch snap, and trackers going crazy.  I wait.  But, oh, Cato is rousing.  What now?  Sleep just a little longer!  Don’t open your eyes just yet!  Wait!  Please wait! 

Crack!  The branch snaps, I stand to my feet, and sprint for what I can only remember to be the creek near that small cave.  That direction, however, is not well remembered, but I do my best to run in that direction.  That direction happened to be right in front of Cato, who quickly gripped my ankle causing me to fall face first in the dirt.  Lucky for me, I did not drive myself through with the spear in both hands. 

“Where are you going?”  He whispers in a yell with the angriest look on his face.  All of this corresponds over a quarter of a second, but it felt like minutes in my head.  The hive falling, Cato’s mouth moving, looking up, watching Katniss in her moment of triumph; it feels like an eternity.  It feels like a pause. 

The tracker jacker nest slams into the ground, sending thousands of tracker jackers into the air, violently stinging us all, but me the least, as I have displaced the most from the center of our camp; right where the hive landed. 

The buzzing distracts Cato just enough to let go of me, and I sprint as fast as I can, probably the fastest I have ever ran in my life, for the creek.  I know they cannot sting me under water. 

I run, and run, away from the camp, knowing that that is the only way Katniss can have a chance of escape at the very least, but most optimistically, get her hands on that bow. 

“Peeta!”  I hear from behind.  “Peeta!”  Cato calls me like an angry parent, like my mother used to back at the Bakery.  He is fending off a small swarm behind him.  It’s enough to distract him from killing me in that moment. 

I feel the stabbing burn under my ear, slap it with my free hand, and feel that too absorb some of the tracker jacker’s poison.  Again, on my chest, arms, and elsewhere.  A fiery intense pain poisons my blood.  It fills my body, taking over some of my muscle control, leaving me prone to its ways.  Though I am still conscious, some of the things I am saying and hearing are not a part of reality.  I know that much to be true.  Sometimes, the hallucinations, or so I have heard from those who have survived these attacks, the jackers don’t just give you a physical wound, but a mental one as well.  You see differently, almost like you’re dizzy.  You say things you don’t mean to.  Sometimes you call the ones you love “vicious snake,” and “mutts” while your body convulses and attacks anything that moves.  The worst part about the tracker jacker’s poison is, you’re completely conscious the whole time.  Completely aware of some of the things you’re saying.  Only you can’t stop it.  That’s the horror of these insects.  Now, I have heard that the affects aren’t always the same on everybody, and sometimes, for smaller people, it isn’t that way at all; it’s just a horrible hallucination where you see colors and shapes that don’t exist.  That is the easy way out.  I have only heard this from one person before.  I heard it from a man well in his hundred’s down at the Hob.  Mac, they call him.  Old Mac.  He was a veteran of the Great War with the Capitol.  He escaped the extermination camps and survived in District Twelve.  They did things to him, though.  They “hijacked” him, so he says.  He killed his wife, mother, son, and cousin under the influence of tracker jacker venom the Capitol injected in him.  “I was aware of it all, I remember it clear as day,” he says.  “Only they know how to do it.  Make your body do something your mind refuses.  Only they, in the Capitol know how to do it!”  He flew off the edge there, going off in a fit of paranoia, muttering things to himself, asking “did they find me yet?  Did they?  Did they?”  I remember him being crazy.  I remember the day he died too.  All from a genetically modified wasp.

Lookig back, Cato is far worse off than I am.  I can tell that he is furious with me as soon as I get to the creek.  I dive in, submerging myself, watching the others do the same, including Cato.  Only he grabs my neck as we are both under water, choking me with one hand. 


	16. Chapter 16

The grip he has on my neck is deadly, but my newly learned skills in martial arts from the Capitol comes to good use.  I use a pressure point on his hand and wrist to loosen the grip, and I rush to the bank, spear pointed in his direction.  My breath is gone from running and from being attacked by the most lethal person in this arena. 

“You double crossing liar!”  He screams at me when he too comes out of the water with the other careers following.  “I trusted you!  We had a deal!”  His anger causes him to draw his sword angrily.  I keep my spear pointed in an aggressive defensive manner. 

“I did not betray your trust, Cato!”

“You were running off without telling me of danger!  You wanted me dead!  You conspired with her!  You are a trickster!  I should have let them kill you,” pointing to the careers around him.  That is true.  When Thresh attacked me, exposing me to the crowd, they could have ended me, but Cato stopped them.  His hand lowered their weapons. 

Clove raises a knife in preparation to throw, I instinctively raise the spear to cover my face, and the blade flies off of the shaft, bounding off like a ball against a wall.  What luck I have to deflect one of her knives with my spear!

Cato advances to me, preparing to stab me through, but my spear tip seeps through the flesh in his side, giving out a huge scream of pain.  Blood flows like a fountain, some on me.  I feel his pain.  I feel what I have done to him.  He was a noble ally.  He had a goal.  What have I done? 

Again all of this happened in a quarter of a second, but in my mind, it felt like minutes. 

I sprint back for Katniss.  Hopefully she is still in the vicinity.  I have not seen Glimmer back at the river, I hope she is still at the tree.  If she is, I can only assume she is dead or on Death’s threshold.  Sprinting as fast as I can, I look back just a moment to see if I am being pursued.  Cato is following behind, but he is injured and a heck of a lot slower than he usually is as a result.  I am happy this spear’s shaft is some kind of light hard metal that has the property it has to deflect a flying knife.  I guess that could come in handy. 

I am almost back at the tree. My heart is racing, hoping to find Katniss alive, gone, and just not dead.    
“Katniss!”  I yell to myself.  “Please, Katniss!” 

Back at the tree, I see two figures.  The tracker jacker venom is taking a huge toll on my perception of everything around me.  I can feel the swelling under my ear.  I remember seeing bumps all over Cato and the rest.  I can only assume the poison has the same disorientating effect on them as it has on me.  I can only imagine how Katniss is dealing with the poison. 

Glimmer is swollen and disfigured on the ground, and I hear the sound of a cannon fire.  Katniss is standing over the body.  She is just standing.  I don’t realize that I still have my spear raised when she sees me.  I hope she doesn’t see me as a threat, but a friend.  Last I saw of her, she was standing at the beginning of the Games.  I hoped that she would just look my way so she could see my warning.  I knew she would go for those arrows.  It wasn’t the time then.  Now it is.

She stares blankly at me.  Is she thinking at all?  What happened to her?  She is not in her right mind at all.  She is sick. 

Seeing her alive and now is the happiest I have ever felt since long before the Games.  Probably the happiest I felt since I first saw the girl with the braids.  I can only imagine what is going through her head right now.  “Will Peeta Mellark kill me?”  She is thinking.  No, Katniss.  I will not.  I am here to help you.  Only my words are inspired by fear more than helpfulness. 

“What are you still doing here?  Are you mad?”  She falls to her feet.  The bow and arrows are in her hand.  Mission completed.  My ethos is done.  I doubt she is even aware of how her body is reacting to the tracker jackers.  Maybe she is asleep, droning.  “Get up!  Get up!”  I yell at her.  Her hands flinch when I pull her up.  I have the feeling she doesn’t welcome the idea of me helping her, but too bad.  Hearing Cato stumble along behind me is just enough to put me in a state of extreme fear for her life and my own.  I am probably the only one he hates more than her now.  At the very least, he hates us equally.  “Run!”  I yell at her.  Her beautiful eyes meet mine, and I yell a second time with all of my lungs and voice, “Run!” 

Cato appears, sword drawn.  He has no words for me.  His facial expressions are enough to communicate what he wants and what he plans to do to me. 

Katniss scurries far out of sight, faster than either of us, Cato nor myself could run at this point.  Blood leaks from his side where I stabbed him once with my spear in defense.  I can tell he plans to do that, and more to me.  Briefly remembering how he behaved in the training room, I can only imagine what his capabilities are.  Sure he is strong, and sure he is big, but I took that sword from Thresh.  I could take it from him, too.

All that I can seem to remember is back when I got that long scar on my arm.  I remember the feel of the sharp knife separating my flesh.  I remember the pain and the blood.  The difference between then and now is that I was able to get medical attention.  I can feel that scar on my arm pulsating through my skin.  I am anticipating that pain all over my body.  So it begins. 

Cato steps dangerously close, and I poke numerous times at him to back off.  I make a slicing motion with the head of the spear, hoping it will do something. 

Strangely enough, I cannot see any of the other Careers behind him.  I suspect he told them that this was his battle.  This is the end. 

“She will hunt you down, you know.  You are not safe, Cato.  She will find you!” 

“You will die before the sun sets, Peeta.  A long time ago, my grandfather read a book about hell.  He told me that the deepest circle is reserved for betrayers.  That is where you belong, Peeta.  Just as you betrayed me, Peeta, just as you exploited my trust, you will too!  You will be betrayed, exploited, played like an instrument!  You won’t know it!  Just as you tricked me, you will be tricked!”  He stabs and slashes violently, closer and closer, forcing himself upon me with each move. 

Though I deflect each slash brilliantly with my strong spear, I fear I will not be able to hold out much longer.  I know I won’t.  After all, he is a career, and I a simple baker’s boy.  “You gave me no choice!”  I yell through breaths.  “I will not allow you to harm her.  Not while I am alive, the cannon will not fire for her while I am still breathing!” 

His hands are faster than mine, as is his instinct with weapons.  I could feel his sword penetrate the skin of my leg.  I feel the cold metal separate the flesh from my bone above the knee.  I feel my strength leave suddenly as I stumble to the ground, unable to control myself. 

The only thing I remember is back at the bakery, the knifes falling on my arm giving me that scar.  It is the pain is the same.  The bleeding is the same. 

Cato leans in as if he intends to murder me, but I hold up my spear in defense.  I can tell he is tired as well as injured.  He doesn’t want me dead.  He wants me to suffer for my betrayal.  He wants me to bleed. 

“The cannon will fire for her, and you will live to see it.”  He walks away as if I was dead.  I am as good as dead.  Standing to my feet, I see the other careers closing in on my position, and I hasten my way up, running away on pure adrenaline.  Cato calls them off, knowing that I will bleed out anyway.  He knows I will surely die.  I will die; he is right about that.  I am just happy I can die with the satisfaction of completing my mission, satisfying my ethos if you will. 

The blood keeps pouring.  Flesh and skin falls out of the wound, I struggle to keep it all in, to tie it back up in my leg.  Do something!  Stop bleeding! 

I hobble along and along until I can no more.  “Katniss,” I whisper out loud, knowing I must be being watched.  “Katniss,” I chant over and over again as I try to plug the profusely bleeding wound.  “Oh, Katniss, please,” I stuff even leaves in the wound to try and plug it. 

I crawl with only my hands and arms.  What am I thinking?  What am I doing?  Why do you do what you do Peeta?  I can feel the life leave me little by little.  I am bleeding too much. 

Funny what I would do for her, Katniss. This was a tactic, the idea of Haymitch to have us madly in love.  This was all a ploy.  She was to be the one to live, and not me.  I guess that is all fair and good.  Makes sense, I guess. 

Though it is my job to be in love with the girl with the braids, I am.  She is the reason why I still persist in these Games.  She is the reason why I survived the first day, allied with the Careers, and am crawling towards the creek now.  I can only imagine the impression I have made on her.  I wouldn’t be at all upset if she thinks of me just as much as an enemy as Cato.  It is reasonable.  My death means her life.  I understand that.  “Katniss, please carry on.”  The pain in my left leg grows so much more. 

I shake, shivering, but not from the cold.  I don’t know what.  My head shakes from side to side.  I don’t know why.  My leg twitches over and over, not stopping.  “Calm down, Peeta.  Calm down.”

At the creek, there is a huge rock formation I could easily camouflage myself in for a few days while I wait for the final phases to commence.  My leg is horrifying.  I can see the bone down deep in my leg. The bleeding has subsided for now, but I don’t think I will ever walk again.  I think this is it for me. 

I make paste with mud and dirt of all different shades, painting every visible piece of myself into the rock, just the way I learned from the camouflaging station in training.  I could buy some time this way. 

My stomach turns, and I regurgitate what little I have eaten in the past few days.  Stomach acid splashes in the wound, burning my legs, overcoming me with such excruciating pain and burning.  “Katniss, you better win.  You’d better.” 

I am so dizzy.  It is both from the loss of blood, and the sickness from seeing my own leg from the inside.  Either way, I am not thinking right. 

“Just hide yourself, Peeta,” I say to myself as I begin to compress my body in a natural break in the rock surface near the river.  “Just relax, and paint yourself in.  Do what you’re good at.  Disappear.”

Come to think of it, I may be just as helpful hidden as I ever could be.  I could be just as well off as I was before the Games.  I could survive anonymously.  I could.

Days pass, many days.  The sun in its various positions across the sky flutters so unnaturally it offers enough intrigue to keep my mind occupied this past long time.  It has been since the day before, in this rock since I have been able to move at all.  Since then I have heard quite a few cannon shots.  It is only faith keeping me from thinking that Katniss is dead.  It is only the lost hope of a hopeless fate of two star-crossed lovers keeping me alive.  “Stay awake, Peeta,” I whisper through the deceiving paint.  “Stay awake.  Stay alive just a little longer.” 

The wound in my leg is so deep and so damaging, I doubt I will survive.  That is what my reason has led me to believe.  Still, there is hope.  There is more hope at the words heard overhead by none other than Claudius Templesmith.  Such a strange name, but still, it is his name.  What could he have to say to us? 

“Attention Tributes, there’s been a rule change in the Games.  Two Tributes will be crowned victors if the last remaining Tributes originate from the sane District.  Again, two Tributes will be crowned victors if the remaining two originate from the same District.  May the odds be ever in your favor.” 

The crackle of the microphone signals the end of his speech, and I just now realize the amazing truth of what is now the biggest stroke of luck I have ever experienced in my life. 

I can survive!  It is possible for me and Katniss to survive!  There is a chance.  There is an opportunity.  Oh, please, Peeta Mellark, stay alive just a little longer!

I don’t know if it is a side effect of loss of blood, but I hear music.  I hear Katniss.  “ _Are you, are you, coming to the tree where they strung up a man they say who murdered three?  Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met here at midnight in the Hanging Tree.”_


	17. Chapter 17

Footsteps scare me conscious, but I cannot move anyway.  Looking from side to side, I see nothing.  I see no one.  I must have dreamed it. 

There it is again!  What is that?  How much time has passed?   Haven’t had anything to eat or drink in days.  How am I alive?

 The glance of a boot in water tickles my interest.  I look to see who connects to that boot.  My eyes blink but nothing else. 

The mockingjay pin on her jacket identifies the body better than any other possible form of identification.  Better than a Passport, better than a nametag.  Better than a District Number.

“You here to finish me off, sweethear?”  My voice is so hoarse I doubt she recognizes me.  No, she doesn’t.  Katniss only shifts her hunter’s glare from side to side, in search of the mouth whose voice rang from. 

“Peeta?”  She whispers curiously yet unconvinced.  I doubt she would recognize my voice anyway.  She steps closer and closer to the rock I am lying beside, perfectly camouflaged.  “Where are you?”  Her boot is inches from my face. 

“Well don’t step on me,” I say louder than I spoke before.  I am pleased to see Katniss has her bow and arrows.  I am happy I helped contribute to that hopeful victory.  She steps back in shock and fright.  I guess I didn’t think about how that could startle someone whose life is constantly threatened.  I still can’t help but laugh out loud.  I’m dying, I deserve a laugh. 

She is very impressed at my camouflage.  “Close your eyes again,” she says in a very demanding tone.  I do, and can hear her gasp at the job of my camouflage.  “I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off.”  I open my eyes, grinning like a clown, dumbstruck I still have the opportunity to be in her presence in this magical world where the Capitol thinks we are in love. 

She is absolutely breathtaking.  She stands over me like a Goddess in the stories the Baker once told me.  Katniss is wearing a jacket with the back burnt off, a shirt, pants, boots, and the mockingjay pin.  Her olive skin glows almost literally.  Her hair flies in the wind, hands holding her weapon of choice.  Her grey eyes beat down on me, lips partly open, standing in all her glory.  Never before since Athena stood over Odysseus, counseling him in the proper action before the Trojan War, has any level of magnificence stood over a mortal man such as myself.  Hallelujah. 

“Yes, frosting.”  I try not to let this last phrase audible, but my voice is included in the parts of the body I cannot control.  “The final defense of the dying.” 

“You’re not going to die.”  She draws in closer.  I suspect she is planning on pulling me out of my coffin of nature. 

“Says who?”  I respond in an exhausted and frustrating tone.  Who is she to tell me when I will live or die? 

“Says me.”  Fair enough.  “We’re on the same team now, you know.”  At first I don’t get it, but then I remember the announcement I heard a few days ago.  I wasn’t dreaming that?  That was real?  I reasoned it out in my head a day or so ago that it must have been a figment of my imagination.  No such thing like that has happened before.  It is not reasonable to think something as radical as that would happen these Games.  Not likely.  For all I know, this encounter is a continuation of that dream.  I don’t think so.  It is too vivid; too real.  After the tracker jackers, I felt a little different.  Everything felt hazy, like a dream, even my injury felt like a dream almost.  Now, nothing has felt more real than this very moment right now. 

“So, I heard.  Nice of you to find what’s left of me.”  I understand that my tone of voice, and choice of words is not appropriate.  I should be grateful, optimistic.  My body will not allow my spirits to be raised just yet. 

I see her pull a canteen from her side.  She hands me the valuable container, and I drink willingly from it.  It is the first drink I had since I could last remember.  The paint stretches and breaks as I try to sit up and chug the water as efficiently as I can. 

Katniss’ face wells with sympathy, and I don’t know if she knows, but she expresses sorrow and places a hand around my neck.  I feel like it is natural, involuntary.  Maybe it is like what I felt at the beginning of the Games; I owed her my every effort and sympathy to get her that bow.  Now she owes me every effort and sympathy in finding me, and staying alive with me until we are the last ones standing.  “Did Cato cut you?”  She asks softly and innocently as if I were an intimate friend. 

My chest shivers as if I were cold, but I’m not.  I don’t know why my body is behaving this strangely.  “Left leg.  Up high.”

Each brush of physical contact with her sends a rush of joy and excitement through my body.  Katniss kneels down, lifting my drooping head up, and stares me in the eyes.  Her beautiful olive skin burns a hole in my heart.  Her grey eyes see my naked soul.  Let’s get you in the stream wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you got.”  I don’t know if she is doing this on purpose or if she is being genuinely concerned for me. 

“Lean down for a minute first,” I request.  “Need to tell you something.”  Sarcasm for her most recent behavior, I feel, is appropriate.  I don’t know why she is being so unusually affectionate.  “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”  She gives me a strange look, and I fear she doesn’t understand my sarcasm.  I wink at her.  She smiles lovingly and dismisses it as nerves from a near death experience. 

“Thanks,” she says awkwardly.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”  I could almost see her blushing, but she doesn’t allow it to show.  She helps me to my feet, but I cannot carry my own weight.  I haven’t moved in days.  I doubt I could walk if I tried until the dough rises. 

“Ugh!”  I can’t manage even a step, and Katniss knows this.  I expect her to scold me when I topple to the ground, but she doesn’t.  She gently picks me up again, figuring out a way to help me to the creek, just a few feet away.  A few feet, a mile, what’s the difference?

MY mind races, flashing from memory to memory.  I remember that moment the Baker stretched out his hand, pointing at the girl with the braids.  I remember her singing on the first day of school.  I remember seeing her sitting just outside the back of the bakery, hopeless, starving, weak, and empty.  I remember that impulsive desire to help her.  I dropped that bread in the fire on purpose.  Then her expression of confusion when she sees the loaf bouncing off the muddy ground towards her.  I think that was the first time I made eye contact with her. 

There is still vegetation and earth holding me in place, though it is little.  That on top of moving an entire immobile fully grown human body must be a challenge comparable to surviving the Hunger Games.  She manages, and nearly separates some joints from some sockets in the process.  I commend her for her gentle touch and technique, but she is still causing a lot of pain.  For both of our sakes I am doing my best to keep silent through the pain. 

I see things in stop motion.  The ground, then the sky, then her, the water, then darkness. 

Katniss places a gentle hand behind my neck as she addresses me kindly.  “Look, Peeta,” her sweet voice rings like music in my ears.  My eyes focus on her.  I could listen to her talk all day.  This is paradise.  “I’m going to roll you into the stream.  It’s very shallow here, okay?”  Her subtle smile comforts me.  I feel the same warmth in my skin as I always felt in her presence.  This is not for the Capitol. 

“Excellent,” is all I can say.  Nothing else comes out.  I thought maybe I would say something else, like a joke, but that is all I could say: excellent.  I could not be happier about that.  That is how I feel.  Everything now is absolutely excellent. 

She kneels next to me so that it is from left to right, Katniss, me, then the river, preparing to roll me in the cold frigid water.  “On three, one, two, three!”  She rolls me once, and a twig or a pebble or something embeds itself in the wound.  Probably was already there from the camouflage, but I did not feel it until that moment.  It took every bit of strength left in my body to resist screaming at the top of my weak dying lungs.  Good god, make it stop!  Everything is shaking.  I can’t make it stop, I can’t blot it out. 

She feels my resistance, and can hear my pain, unless she is somehow deaf.  Thankfully the pain subsides, and she leans back down to my side, paying no attention to whatever danger may be lurking beyond.  “Okay, change of plans.  I’m not going to put you in all the way.” 

My heart is relieved at the sound of that.  I don’t need to be submerged anyway.  “No more rolling?”  I can barely speak after the horrible flash of pain at whatever is in my wound.  That has to get out.  Whatever that was, it has to be removed, but I cannot even move my arms let alone fish out a pebble or a small rock. 

“That’s all done,” she says.  “Let’s get you cleaned up.  Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?”  I don’t know if she does this at all out of thankfulness or if she is only here because of the new rule change in the Games.  Would that make a difference?  Would the only reason she would come to me be that I am a means to an end?  No, I don’t think so.  Her eyes are too trustworthy for that.  She is not that kind of Tribute.  She is not like the Careers. 

She props me up against a tree, and begins removing a lot of the caked mud and clay from my body.  She removes the jacket, peeling some fabric from the burn I have on my chest.  Oh yea, I was burned.  I forgot about that since I have been crippled.  Funny what that does to someone.  Still, I don’t really care too much about burns.  Working everyday next to a hot five-hundred degree oven must make one used to being burned. 

She keeps water flowing on my leg; it stings like nothing I have ever felt before.  Like what I remember when I vomited a while back, but so much worse. 

Looking anxiously at the woods in any direction my neck will allow gives me relief.  I am not worried though.  I see that bow next to Katniss.  I remember her squirrels.  I am not afraid anymore.  I am safe for now. 

She washes the paint and mud from my face and hair, pulling out the tracker jacker stingers from under my ear, and the various other parts of my chest and arms.  I don’t remember some of these stings.  That tells of the effects of tracker jacker poison I guess. 

The next thing she does is questionable.  Katniss pulls these off green leaves from a satchel, chews them in her mouth, and applies them to the tracker jacker wounds.  Amazingly, the pain of the stings instantly recedes until finally it is not even noticeable anymore.  My wincing and grunting at some of her medical methods is reasonable, but I doubt she appreciates my position.  I don’t think anyone could sympathize with being disabled.  I don’t think I could have imagined what it was like to be made completely worthless and useless by an injury. 

“Swallow these,” she holds out a palm with two small pills in them.  I don’t know what they do but I don’t care.  She isn’t trying to poison me.  I swallow them with trouble.  I don’t think I have eaten because I really don’t want to.  My stomach rejects those pills, but they will stay down, I feel.  I dare not eat, though I really need to, probably.  I am malnourished I know.  “You must be hungry.”  She says this like a caring protector over a helpless ill tribute. 

“Not really.  It’s funny, I haven’t been hungry for days.”  I don’t know why I said it like that, but I think I am just so nervous talking to Katniss.  She is intimidating, but not in a bad way.  In the girl with the braids way I guess.  She is like a celebrity.  I can’t help but be a little struck by her.  I mean, I already met and spoke with her before.  Hell, I confessed my love to her on national television.  What did that get me?  Broken pottery in my hands, that’s what.  But I can’t hold a grudge.  I know I must have been too forward for her.  I know that was a bit inappropriate. 

She offers me the leg of some kind of bird, and I cannot accept it.  I know that I barely swallowed those pills.  How will I eat a bird leg?  I love squirrel, but even that now would make me sick.  Aside that, I have never eaten the leg of anything.  The Baker never prepared such a thing.  Eating the leg of a bird is just as foreign to me as eating a person.  I don’t know why exactly, but I was trained not to be attracted to it. 

Still, I am baffled at how this simple interaction with the girl I am convinced I loved since childhood could be so trivial and meaningless outside of the fact that she is nursing me.  I doubt she even knows the truth.  I doubt she will ever know.  After all, this was a tactic.  Get real, Peeta, she doesn’t love you.  She is a survivor!  Think of it, she grew up in the Seam without a father.  She doesn’t need love.  She needs the people in the Capitol to think she is in love.  That is it!

But still, the girl with the braids casts her continuous spell.  Haymitch probably could see it, Portia knows of it, Cinna I am sure has heard rumors from Portia.  Even Effie knows.  She is not dumb, but she is gullible and will fall for anything the Capitol says. 

Everyone except for Katniss knows I love her.  I almost forgot for a few days that was what I was doing.  I had no idea.  I am not thinking straight I guess.  That’s okay.  I am in the arms of the girl I loved since childhood.  The arms of the girl who sees right through me. 


	18. Chapter 18

“Peeta,” she nags me mid thought, “we need to get some food in you.”  She holds up the bird leg as if it was a piece of very expensive jewelry. 

“It’ll just come right back up.  Thanks.”  I push the small piece to her signaling that it will only be wasted on me.  I am close to death.  It’s pointless for me to eat anything at this point.  “I’m much better, really,” I lie.  “Can I go to sleep now, Katniss?”  What I am asking is if I can die in peace.  I know it is what is honorable.  It is what the Baker would want, it is what I promised him.  Any more and I will lose myself anyway.  I am going to die in here anyway.  Now that I am in Katniss’ arms, there are no better terms to go by. 

“Soon,” she says to me, staring in my eyes.  “I need to look at your leg first.”  The thought of this just being a tactic for Capitol favor seems to diminish now.  If this was an act, she would not think to do the things she is doing.  She would give me the medicine, make me eat something, and move on with me to the next hiding spot.  No.  She is looking out for my wellbeing, washing me, caring for me, giving me medical attention.  Katniss may not know it, or she may be acting completely genuinely right now, but she is doing this because it is an emotional duty for her.  She will not feel right with herself unless she did it. 

I guess she does remember that night I threw her the bread.  The short time I have spent with her, I learned she doesn’t like to be in debt.  But she isn’t in my debt.  I think it has to do more with the change in circumstance for us.  That must be it.  Nothing else makes sense.  Like Portia said, “ _this is the kind of thing that makes me wish I was younger.”_   This is the dream, literally.  The Star Crossed Lovers from District Twelve.  The cameras are on us.  They have to be.  We have to be the center of conversation at this point.

She pulls off my boots and socks.  I really wish I could help in some way other than being the lookout, but I know that I cannot.  I can’t even move by myself.  I am getting to the point to where I can move my arms freely, but the muscles sting like they were asleep.  They were, I guess. 

She pulls off my trousers to get a better view of the wound, and now I see what is giving me so much trouble.  I can’t see the bone on my left leg anymore, but I can see something far more frightening.  I can see streaking lines, a countless many, running up and about my leg from the wound.  Faint.  Just barely.  I don’t think Katniss is taking enough time to look at the wound to notice.  It reeks.  She is not directly looking at it either. 

I didn’t expect to be alive this long anyways, so when I hid, I didn’t take care to avoid infection.  Well, too late for that now I guess.  I had no idea I would see her again, or be given this opportunity to survive together.  So much for surviving.  When the infection reaches my heart, I will die.  At this point, I can see a few lines stretching up past my underwear.  It is progressing rapidly.  I will die within a week, two tops.  This is it.  For real this time.  The ooze of blood and puss as well as the smell of rotting flesh literally makes it hard to breathe. 

“Pretty awful, huh?”  I try and break the silence.  The look on Katniss’ face is grim. 

“So-so,” is her response.  She is a horrible liar.  “You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines.”  That may be true.  I am sure there are horrible injuries from the mines.  I remember a couple of emergencies in my lifetime, but nothing like this.  This is completely different than a mining accident.  Besides, her mother treats the injury.  I remember when I sliced open my arm, it was Katniss’ mother, not Katniss who nursed my wound.  Sure, she could be very experienced and knowledgeable from aiding her during these kinds of procedures, but she is not her mother.  “First thing is to clean it well.”  Katniss mutters those words like she has to convince someone that is the case.  Doesn’t she know that anyone from Twelve would know that to be the case?  Everyone knows to clean a wound.  Infection happens from not doing that.  Why does she need to convince me?  I think she is just convincing herself that she knows what she is doing.  She doesn’t, I can tell. 

I am glad she at least didn’t make me take off my underwear.  She let me have that much pride after being emasculated right in front of the woman I love. 

The first the she pulls out of my leg was the leaves and some dirt.  She pulls out this small jagged stone that got mixed in.  That was what caused me so much pain when she was rolling me.  After a while of scooping out debris blood and puss from my thigh, she sits, washes her hands in the stream, and just stares at the wound clueless as to what to do next.  “Why don’t we give it some air and then…” She pauses.  She is clueless.

I knew it, this is a completely foreign act to her.  I though at least she knew how to nurse wounds from maybe a hunting accident with Gale or something.  Just something!  “And then you’ll patch it up?”  I ask a little offended and annoyed. 

“That’s right,” she says without blinking an eye, like I just told her what to do or something.  I take it back, with her help, I won’t die in two weeks, I’ll die in two days!  “In the meantime, you eat these.”  She places two halves of partly dried preserved pears in my hand.  I know they are pears, but I never have tried them before.  I have no idea what they taste like, only that they are pears.   A few times back at the Bakery, we used to put them in pastries and such.  Smelling usually is a good sense to compare to taste, so I know what they smell like. 

Katniss walks my jacket, shirt, pants, boots, and socks to the river, and hand washes them.  I stick to my hypothesis that this has nothing to do with the “sympathy” card from the Capitol.  This is genuine feelings, I think as I bite in the first pear half.  It is amazing, the taste, I mean.  I forget I am nauseous, and just feel the attack of flavor from the fruit I have never been able to afford to eat.  There is no pit, but I vaguely remember selling them at the Hob along with other seeds whenever we used expensive fruit like this.  The taste reminds me of the smell, which reminds me of the Bakery and home.  I close my eyes and just imagine that I am back home, waiting between batches for the bread to finish, and for the yeast to rise.  That awkward moment between tasks.  During that time, I usually do what I am doing; I close my eyes, and let my senses absorb every speck of beauty in that moment as, in that case, I smell the gorgeous breads and dough’s, and in this case, feel the dried fruit in my mouth and against my tongue. 

The thought never occurred to me, but maybe, again it’s just a thought, but maybe I will make it home alive.  Katniss is here, working towards saving me.  She believes we can survive.  If she believes it, there must be good reason for it.  I could live; Katniss and I could win the Hunger Games. 

I was able to force down the first pear half by the time Katniss got back, while she was mustering through her supplies.  Where did she get this food?  Did she take it off of Glimmer?  I know the Careers kept to themselves, but would she have hidden food from the group?  I don’t know.  Katniss was not at all “up there” when it came to her mental faculties when I found her.  She doesn’t have much tolerance for tracker jackers I suspect. 

She then takes some leaves, the kind that she put on the tracker jacker stings, speaking of.  “We’re going to have to experiment some.”  Katniss’ face is very flushed and I can tell that this job was solely her mother’s.  Katniss is a phenomenal hunter, but I know she is in no way cut out to be a healer.  She then sticks some leaves in her mouth, chewing them in a wad, placing them in my gash on my left leg.  She spits the remaining leafy crumbs in her mouth, and I can visibly see her about to get sick.  I must admit that the leaves make my wound feel less than that of what it is, and a similar sensation of it leeching out the pain occurs.  Maybe that is the answer to my infection.  That could be the cure. 

My leg does begin to bleed some; the leaves are flushing out some of the puss.  “Katniss,” I say to distract her from her state of illness.  Her eyes meet mine, and I can sense she feels horrible.  I mouth the words “how about that kiss?” while raising my eyebrows in a blatant attempt to make her laugh.  I feel that the obvious sarcasm may be lost on her, but anything to keep her from vomiting.  I know how precious food is to her, besides, I think she values her pride. 

Her expression as follows is a bit more of what I was hoping for the first time I suggested we kiss for the Capitol to see.  I know that it was wasted last time, but to my surprise, she bursts out laughing.  The sickness leaves her almost immediately.  “Something wrong?”  I ask with a little hint of facetiousness. 

“I…” she bites her jacket near the Mockingjay pin, “I’m no good at this.  I’m not my mother.”  Well, you could have told me that, sweetheart, I want to say.  I know that already.  Then again, this kind of care is far better than I could ask from anyone in the Hunger Games, I guess.  “I have no idea what I’m doing and I hate pus.  Euh!”  She gets out before she heaves a little.  I understand her completely.  If the roles were reversed, I would be the first to volunteer to help her, but I know that I also would have puked half an hour ago at this point.  Heck, probably when I got the first whiff of the smell.  “Euuuh!”  She gags after she removes and replaces the first round of leaves. 

“How do you hunt?”  I ask to try and get her mind off of the task at hand.  I know that it is something that interests her greatly.  It is practically her life.  Everything that is Katniss Everdeen revolves around hunting.  To better understand her, and for the first chance I have ever had to ask the girl with the braids, I take it.  I can’t believe I didn’t ask the girl I love this question long ago. 

“Trust me,” she says, shifting her gaze to my eyes.  “Killing things is much easier than this.  Although for all I know, I am killing you.”  She cracks a small smile when she said that.  I think she is beginning to get my sense of humor.

I sit up slightly.  I have more control of my body than I have had for days.  My right leg is at my command now.  I can wiggle my left toes, even.  “Can you speed it up a little?”

She giggles a little, “No.  Shut up and eat your pears.”  The first one was good.  I want to ask her where she got it, tell her what I used to make with them, and practically everything else I wanted to talk to the girl with the braids about when I was younger.  When I was little, in fact, the first day the Baker pointed to the girl with the braids to distract me from my fear of school, I just wanted to talk to her.  Most of all, I want to tell her about that bread.  I want her to know that I recognized her that night.  I wouldn’t have done it for anyone, and I don’t think that is selfish or anything.  I think that is okay.  She has a special place in my heart. 

Now that I am older, I know the value of this moment with the girl with the braids


	19. Chapter 19

“What next, Dr. Everdeen?”  I ask her as I take a huge bite of the remaining pear. 

“Maybe I’ll put some burn ointment on it.  I think it helps with infection anyway.”  Why did she have burn ointment?  Where did she get it?  I hope it was from the sponsors, from Haymitch.  I remember telling him I wanted her to get all of the support.  Up till now, I expected to be dead up to this point.  “And wrap it up?”  She asks almost.  I nod, as if I acknowledge her question, but I don’t think she needed permission.  She doesn’t.  I am at her care. 

Without any clothes it is rather cold.  It is like District Twelve, I guess.  Cool, just not terrible.  Katniss pulls out a piece of cotton cloth in bulk, and wraps my leg with it.  Then she takes a little more, and hands it to me.  “Here, cover yourself with this and I’ll wash your shorts.” 

“Oh, I don’t care if you see me.”  Before I clench my fingers on the white cloth.  I take it regardless.

“You’re just like the rest of my family.  I care, all right?”  She turns her back to the creek, and I take off the underwear that I only now realize is filthy from the mud.  The ground is very cold, and I cover my naked bottom half with the cloth.  My other clothes are still drying.  With my right hand, I am able to toss the underwear into the water.  I accidently overshot it, but oh well. 

Katniss washes my clothes and I look out for any sign of danger.  People are the danger here.  “You know,” I begin while Katniss is still washing some clothes, “you’re kind of squeamish for such a lethal person.”  I try to continue the slightly kidding tone of this conversation.  It is always what I imagined a conversation to be like with Katniss.  I now know that she is not like me in that sense.  She is the kind of person that says what she means and means what she says.  “I wish I’d let you give Haymitch a shower after all.”  She doesn’t respond to that at all, and I think I know why. 

She and Haymitch are just too much alike.  She is like me and my brothers I guess.  I don’t have the best relationship with them because we are too much alike.  I guess if we really got to sit down with ourselves, talk, and get to know ourselves from the perspective of someone else, we wouldn’t really like ourselves.  We are stubborn in our own likeness.  We know how to get on our own nerves.  “What’s he sent you so far?”  She asks me. 

“Not a thing.”  I try and remain neutral with that admission.  I don’t want her to know I gave Haymitch instruction.  I don’t think she would appreciate the charity.  She wouldn’t feel as if it was rightfully hers and try to make me take it back.  She is funny like that, I feel.  At least, that is what I can imagine she’d do.  “Why, did you get something?”  I try to shift my tone to curiosity, as if I didn’t know that she would be the one receiving all the aid.  I didn’t want to make it seem like I was overeager, or cared too much about that fact.  The key to lying is staying between two extremes.  You don’t want to be too excited, or too mellow.  You want to remain mostly impartial in your tone, as if it was not a big deal.  As if it was natural and effortless.  Too much detail or emphasis feels false, and people detect that as if you were overcorrecting for something.  People detect fakeness really easily; it’s not that hard.

“Burn medicine.  Oh, and some bread.”  I can tell she is trying to downplay the importance of those items in her tone.  She doesn’t want me to feel like they were too important or significant.  I can sense these kinds of things in deceitful people like me.  Thinking about it now, maybe if I was in the Capitol or grew up there, my job would be to be a broadcaster of some sort.  I probably wouldn’t be a baker, but a professional liar.  I am good at this sort of thing.  Too good.  I trick people well.  I tricked Cato, Panem, Katniss, Haymitch even.  I do remember the curse Cato gave me.  It rings in my ears.  I will be deceived, played like an instrument without even knowing it.  Probably.  All I can hope is it doesn’t feel too bad.  I like to think my lies are noble.  I don’t make anyone think anything when I lie, I simple fully and totally convince them that what I am saying is the truth.  That is the key.  It is true.  That is the attitude you must have.

“I always knew you were his favorite.”  I say that with a smile, but she isn’t facing me.  She is looking out beyond the stream as she finishes washing my clothes. 

“Please,” she chuckles.  “He can’t stand being in the same room with me.”  She rings the underwear violently when she says “room,” like she was ringing Haymitch’s neck.  I’ll admit, their personalities clash a bit.  That is how Haymitch is, though.  He gives you a hard time because you are worth his time. 

“Because you’re just alike,” I add trying to make her understand.  She doesn’t say anything after that, she just puts the clothes down on the bank, grabs her bow, looks me in the eye, and sits down, taking over my lookout duty. 

I nod off, feeling sleep overcome me like a disease.  The only specific dreams in that short period of time of rest, I dreamt that my teeth fell our which was weird. 

Katniss shakes my shoulder gently, probably afraid I would be in pain.  I am only relieved I still have all of my teeth.  “Peeta, we’ve got to go now.”  She doesn’t appear in a rush, as if the Careers were behind us, attacking.  She just seems different.  Her grey eyes stare in mine, and I am beyond awake. 

“Go?  Go where?”  I rub my eyes, and she hands me some clothes.  I slide the underwear on without showing my nakedness. 

“Away from here.  Downstream maybe.  Somewhere we can hide you until you’re stronger.”  I nod, and begin sliding my pants on.  You know, this stream is familiar.  Have I been here before?  Katniss does what she can to help.  She puts a sock on, and helps with my shirt.  That is the extent of the help I want.  That is all I need.  I need to make sure I still have power over my body.  My jacket slides on, I tie my boots without help to my surprise.  I need a little help with my left because I cannot bend my left leg due to the injury. 

Standing to my feet, I lean against the tree with each movement, sliding in an upward position, refusing Katniss’ help at this point.  I take my first step forward with my right leg, feeling the blood fall away from my head, fearing I may black out.  When I step with my left, I feel the absence of strength from my upper leg, feel my stomach churn, woozy.  “Come on.  You can do this,” Katniss says with confidence.  Her bow is in her right hand, offering me her left for support.  I take it for a few more steps, then everything goes wrong. 

Walking is not a challenge for a while.  I just needed that initial guide to tell my body remember what walking straight felt like again.  I haven’t walked in days, and I needed to retrain my body what it felt like again.  The rhythm of my walk is nothing like Katniss.  She is light on her feet.  I remember being able to walk lightly, but this sensation of only being able to keep balance with my right leg is throwing off my rhythm.  I end up stomping more than anything.  Katniss takes my right arm over her shoulder, helping me along the way. 

I have to keep talking to stay awake; I mutter anything that I can think of, and almost begin singing the tree poem Katniss reminded me of. 

She sits me down on a rock right on the bank of the river, putting my head between my legs.  Keeping conscious is a feat at this point.  It is so hard.  Stay awake, Peeta.  Just stay awake.  She pats my back like a concerned parent.  I doubt she had this problem with Gale.  I wonder if he ever got injured or something.  She seems to have experience with traveling with an injured person. 

Her hand on my back is the best comfort I have ever had.  I cannot explain why, but it is the greatest relief I have ever felt.  I would go through the Hunger Games just for this had I known.  I would have volunteered just to feel the softness of her hand. 

She takes my hand, and we carry on like before.  Not long after we do, I see a small opening in the rock over the bank of the streams.  I recognize it all too well to be the same cave formation as when the Careers escaped the fire.  My body shakes at the sight of it, but Katniss carries on, looking back at me in fear of me passing out from illness.  I don’t say anything, but I want to.  I doubt anyone is in them.  Katniss would know if they were being occupied.  She is a hunter.  I hope she would know. 

Of all of the few cave formations, she helps me in the very one I was just in.  Inch by inch, she pulls me inside.  I feel bad that she has to work so hard to help me, but I am running out.  My body is failing me at the mouth of the cave. 

Is it cold in here?  I am shivering.  It is hot, but is it?  I don’t know.  Where am I?  Wait, Cato was just here!  What?  She, Katniss?  Who?  What are you doing here?  Oh yea, my leg.  That’s right.  No, Clove isn’t here either.  Neither is Marvel or that other girl.  I don’t even know her name.  Is she still alive?  I don’t know.  I know Glimmer is dead.  I think? 

That was weird.  I don’t know what happened.  I have even less control over myself than I thought before.  Katniss throws some pine needles on the floor of the cave, and rolled me over, tucking me in a sleeping bag. 

She sits right next to me, relaxing probably for the first time today.  I know she has done so much for me. 

She hands me a few pieces of fruit, but I can’t even stand the sight of the fruit.  The thought of food is enough to make me gag. 

After some coaxing, she just gives up, and continues building something.  I don’t remember her doing this, but somehow somewhere she got pieces of vines and pine branches.  She ties the branches together as a kind of doorway, or concealer.  This is a small cave.  I don’t take my eyes off of her.  I don’t know if she knows I’m staring, but I have my suspicion she doesn’t mind. 

Again and again she tries setting up the concealing branches, but gives up, throwing it away.  “Katniss,” I say.  Her face is covered with frustration from her failed creation.  “Thanks for finding me.”  I wish I could see the stupid smile across my face.  She smiles too, looking at the floor, then back at me.  The look on her face is too genuine to be fake.  I don’t believe this is for the cameras.  There is no way.  She is a hunter.  She would be working at killing everyone with stealth.  I, with my leg, with my current disability, am the most blatant threat to her success. 

“You would have found me if you could.”  She runs her fingers across my forehead.  Sitting next to me, her concern grows.  I think she knows how truly serious my situation is, besides the gash in my leg.  Cato got it.  I am slowly dying.  I only doubt that he will make me watch her death now.  That scenario is not possible anymore.  It never was anyway. 

But that is true.  I would have found her.  If the roles were reversed, I would not have rest, acted carelessly to my best interest in winning, and have searched the arena up and down to find Katniss Everdeen.  “Yes.”  I say.  “Look, if I don’t make it back-“

“Don’t talk like that.  I didn’t drain all that puss for nothing.”  She puts both of her hands on the sides of my face as she says that. 

“I know,” I continue, trying to be as logical and realistic as I can.  “But just in case I don’t-“

“No, Peeta, I don’t even want to discuss it.”  She shakes her head, hands still on the sides of my head gently. 

I sit up carefully, put my right hand on her left, rubbing my thumb affectionately, knowing that this moment is totally real.  I want to say: But I know that there is a real possibility I will not survive.  I need you to promise me to carry on if I do.  You have to understand that.  You have a family that depends on you.  I don’t.  That’s what I wanted to say.  I only got out the “But I,” then she pulls my head into a gentle, warm kiss. 


	20. Chapter 20

She pulls away.  I opened my eyes before her, and get a glance of her beautiful face pulling away from an interaction I only dreamed about having with her.  I wish I could run home and tell the Baker.  Eh.  He is probably watching right now.  That’s right!  This is probably up for the whole world to see!  Did Katniss think about that?  This all feels too real.  She isn’t forcing this moment or our interaction.  It must be in the back of her head, but the least of her concerns, I’m guessing.  She pulls the sleeping bag over my shoulders, and holds my head as before, brushing aside some hair in the process.

“You’re not going to die.”  Her hands are still holding my head though we are both sitting up at this point.  I feel a thousand times better after that.  “I forbid it.”  She shakes my head slightly with each word.  “Alright?” 

“Alright,” I mutter, still shocked and completely taken off guard by that gesture of affection from her.  Wow. 

She steps out.  I get the vibe that she is slightly upset at what I said, but I don’t know why.  It must be a consideration of hers.  This must have gone through her head the moment she saw how bad my leg was.  Well, then again, I guess I would react the same way if the roles were reversed. 

I can only imagine what it would have been like had I seen Katniss camouflaged in the rock, gash in her leg or something, dying a slow and painful death.  I know I would do everything in my power to make sure she would survive.  I would have carried her to this very cave, given her small sips of water, and bites of food.  I would have stayed up all night every night watching her sleep, guarding the cave from anyone that would come nearby.  Just to see her safe.  Is that what Katniss feels?  Is that what she is doing?

I lay back down, and nod off to sleep again.  Only this time, I am asleep for a shorter period of time.  Much shorter.  I don’t think I was even asleep, just on the verge of consciousness. 

“Peeta,”  I think I am dreaming when I hear it.  The way she talks, I have never heard it before.  There was something to it, like a giddiness that I never heard from her before.  Like the way lovers talk to each other or something, I don’t know.  I can only imagine. 

Katniss lays a warm hand on my cheek, and plants a soft gentle kiss on my lips before I could open my eyes to see her approach.  At first I am a little shocked, and she chuckles when our lips separate.  She pecks my red nose immediately after her chuckle, and I sit up blushing.  “Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you.”

The sight of something for me sent form Haymitch makes me upset at him.  I told him, and he agreed to only give to Katniss!  But I can’t let that frustration show? 

“What is it?”  I ask not trying not to sound annoyed when I see the golden brown broth.  The metal canister looks so expensive.  I think it’s silver.  I have only seen real silverware once.  That stuff is too expensive.  It even comes with a silverware spoon. 

“It’s broth, silly.  Of course you know what broth is.”  She takes a spoonful of it, holds her hand under to prevent any drops to escape, and brings it in for me to slurp from. 

“No thanks, I don’t want it.”  I say.  I know it is better for her to eat it.  I still don’t feel well enough to eat. 

“Why not?  Peeta, you have to eat something.  You’re dehydrated and ate two pear halfs today.  Eat something else.  You need to get better.” 

“See, I don’t see how broth is any good for me.” 

“Why not?”  Katniss questions seriously. 

“Because, uh… when was the last time you heard of someone eating broth when they were sick huh?”  I try to make her laugh in this very serious time.  She does to my admission.  I love her smile like I love life. 

“Peeta, everyone eats broth when they’re sick.” 

“Well what if it’s pork?”  I ask. 

“What if it’s pork?”  She counters. 

“Well, have you heard of dietary restrictions?  Jews can’t eat pork; if I’m Jewish, I can’t eat that.  Too bad.”  I lay back down, hands behind my head, smiling.  I don’t close my eyes, because I know she is still focused on me.

Katniss now has this serious expression that is telling me that I need to shut up and eat the damn soup.  “Peeta, the Capitol killed all the Jews during the war, you’re not Jewish, and they don’t exist.  Now drink the broth, come on.”

I almost do, and on cue, my nausea kicked in.  “Oh, I can’t.”  I feel the pears making a reappearance with a small burp.  “I think if anything did so much as touch my lips, I would vomit.” 

“Really,” she says challenging my claim.  “If anything touched your lips, you would vomit?” 

“Yes.”  I nod to her. She closes her eyes, pulls in my head with her hands, and kisses me longingly.  She kisses me three times repeatedly, then a fourth for good measure. 

“Mr. Mellark, I believe that if you could stomach that, you can stomach some hot water.”  Her hand pulls some hair over my forehead behind my ear.  I am staring off in the distance, still completely shocked that this is a reality. 

“Fair enough.”  I take the bowl myself, and begin spooning it in generously.  Looking up, I can see Katniss staring off in the distance.  She does this thing in her neutral state.  She has this natural frown almost, like a scowl.  Whenever I am talking to her, or she looks to me, she smiles.  Funny.

I take my fourth spoonful, and begin to cough violently.  I set down the bowl, afraid that it will spill, and just cough so much I can’t breathe.  I don’t know why, I didn’t inhale any broth. 

“What’s wrong?”  Katniss asks in a rather loud tone.  Loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear.  “Peeta, Peeta!  Are you okay?”  I cough a few times more, and the fit ceases.  I take deep breaths, and close my eyes.  Relief from that pain is almost as good as feeling Katniss gently rubbing my back, and pulling me into her chest in a very gentle, intimate fashion.  She sways back and forth, holding me close to her chest.  I hear her heartbeat as she rocks.  She massages my scalp with her fingertips, and kisses my head softly.

“I’m fine, Katniss.  I’m fine.  I think I’m just getting a little sick.” 

“Do you think you can finish the broth?”  She doesn’t let go of me. 

“Yea, I’m fine, I just need to catch my breath.” 

“Okay,” she says, waiting a moment before letting me go, kissing the top of my head before she does. 

I finish the soup in silence, waiting for either another fit of coughing, or something else.  Sleep would be nice.  But I don’t want to miss staring at Katniss. 

Either way, after the broth, I pass out immediately.  I sleep for hours easily.  The most sleep I got since the last night before the Games. 

My sleep is interrupted slightly by Katniss, who snuggles up next to me in the sleeping bag.  She puts her left arm around my chest, holding me close.  I don’t want her to know I’m awake, but I don’t think I could hide the fact I am smiling if I wanted to. 

She unzips the sleeping bag a little, and lays away from me.  I am hot.  I am burning up in fact, and she tends to my needs as they are.  All the while I try to remain sleep.  I’ll admit, I like the attention from her.  I love the fact that she is concerned for my wellbeing.  So what? 

I do pass back out in a heartbeat, totally asleep.  My dreams are mostly about Katniss.  I see her in the same red plaid dress, and the two braids running over her shoulders and down her chest.  She smiles innocently like a child, but she is as old as she is now.  Still beautiful as ever.  I feel the same feeling I felt when I was five.  That hot and cold sensation you feel in your chest.  I don’t think it is love, and I don’t think it is lust.  I think it is just the reaction to seeing a little bit of perfection in someone. 

I open my eyes, and it must be a few hours after morning.  Rubbing my eyes, I look to my left for Katniss.  Maybe she was still asleep, but there was no chance she would do that.  She knows too well that that would be irresponsible.  I should also probably tell her that the Careers like to travel and hunt Tributes at night anyway.  That is what I vaguely remember about my time spent in their pack. 

To my right also, there is no Katniss.  “Katniss,” I call in the cave, just about as loudly as I would have if I were speaking to her at a socially acceptable distance.  “Katniss?”  I call a second time, this time more sternly.  I stand to my feet, and yell, “Katniss!”  I don’t care who can hear me.  It doesn’t occur to me at first that if she was killed, she may not have gone far, and the Careers could be near. 

Would the cannon fire wake me up?  Would I hear if she died while I was sleeping?  Did she die?  Where is Katniss?  Where is she?  “Katniss!”  This time, it is a full on scream as I run out of the cave, fueled by pure adrenaline.  I nearly forget about my injury as I run out of the cave.  “Katniss!”  I scream, and finally tumble down the rocks, nearly taking out my eye on a sharp cornered stone.  I must have rolled twice before I land on the river bank.  “Ah!  Oh!”  I yell as my body reminds me of the slice down my left leg.  The pain is radiating from all parts of my body equally, including my leg.  The good news, if you could call it that, is that I am now fully mobile even though I am dying. 

I hobble back inside the cave, which is a small miracle.  A larger one is that I wasn’t detected from anyone.  I hope she doesn’t notice that I am bruised.  I simply lay down on the sleeping bag.  I am just glad I could get back inside by myself.  I doubt I could stand a second time if I wanted to. 

Almost as if this was scripted, Katniss just walks right in the cave as if nothing had happened.  “I woke up and you were gone,” I say trying to sound serious.  I stumble back up awkwardly, in great pain, barely feeling my leg at this point.  It is drowned out by the other ailments.  “I was worried about you.” 

I wish she saw how worried I was.  I wish I wasn’t so in love with her so I could scold her like I would my sister if I had one.  No.  She doesn’t empathize.  She laughs.  She just laughs like it’s a joke.  “You were worried about me?”  She chuckles casually.  “Have you taken a look at yourself lately?”  She sits down near the sleeping bag, and lays the pot which had my broth next to her. 

“I thought Cato and Clove might have found you.  They like to hunt at night.” 

“Clove? Which one is that?”  She takes me seriously at this point knowing I was justified in my paranoia. 

“The girl from District Two.  She’s still alive, right?”  Maybe a dangerous Career could have been taken out while I was under the weather so to say. 

“Yes,” she confirms.  “There’s just them and us and Thresh and Foxface.  That’s what I nicknamed the girl from Five.”  She looks up to me.  I am standing over her.  I don’t know what I look like, but I must be some sight.  “How do you feel?”  She asks, lightly touching some of the bandaging on my left leg. 

“Better than yesterday,” I admit.  I plop down right next to her, erecting my left leg as I do.  The pain is coming back, but slowly and steadily.  “This is an enormous improvement over the mud.  Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag…” I halt a moment, listing the person I am most thankful for last.  “And you.” 

Her blushing and smiling is more obvious than before.  She reaches over, touching my cheek with her hand.  I catch it, kind of, pulling it in.  She leans in, and I kiss her as gently as I know how, on the lips.  This is something I am completely new to, of course.  I never kissed a girl until yesterday, and I didn’t even think of it.  Wow.  I can’t believe that my first kiss is from the woman I have grown to love. 


	21. Chapter 21

“No more kisses for you until you’ve eaten.”  She orders as she pulls away, snagging the shiny silverware tin in the process.  She opens the lid to reveal a gooey mess of squashed berries and fruits.  It looks repulsive, but smells delicious.  I sit against the wall of the cave, with her aid, and swallow a few spoonful’s of the mixture.  My queasiness returns just as she offers me the thigh of a bird, a groosling I think is what they call it. 

I never liked that kind of thing.  The Baker, on the oh so rare occasions we would have a bird to eat, would never serve the thighs for some reason.  “It is a tradition not to eat the thigh of an animal,” he says, “because it touches the hip joint.”  I never asked him why that is the case, or what tradition it comes from.  I guess it is just one of those things.  I grew up not eating it, and now, I don’t think I would like it.  The Baker would give it away to charity or something.  I don’t know for sure.

“You didn’t sleep.”  I say abruptly. 

“I’m alright,” she counters.  I can tell she is exhausted.  Her voice is enough evidence to that fact. 

“Sleep now,” I order as I stand to my feet, wobbly as I am.  I hand her the sleeping bag.  “I’ll keep watch.  I’ll wake you if anything happens.  Katniss, you can’t stay up forever.” 

She tries to stand back up, and I do not allow it.  My hand is on her shoulder.  She just sits back down, feeling the bodily needs that should be satisfied.  “All right,” she says slurring her speech.  “But just for a few hours.  Then you,” she yawns, “wake me.” 

She lays the sleeping bag down near the back side of the cave, next to the wall.  I sit down against the wall, and keep my left leg straight.  Katniss lays down in front of me, holding her bow and arrows closely.  Outside the cave is nothing but nature.  Nothing but the arena.  I look down, and see her trail off to sleep within the minute.  “Go to sleep.”  Like she did to me, I tuck some loose strands of hair behind her ear, and lightly rung my fingers through her hair.  It is so soft.  She doesn’t scowl when she sleeps.  She is so beautiful. 

After a while of this, I begin to nod off as well.  “No, Peeta,” I say out loud.  Looking down, Katniss is still sound asleep.  If I pass out too, we will be in great danger.  “Just stay up,” I whisper to myself. 

Standing to my feet, getting my balance, I walk around the cave.  That isn’t enough, I feel.  Maybe if, I try again at walking out of the cave.  Maybe if I can prove to myself that I’m not entirely dying.  What good would that do me?  What would that accomplish other than putting me in danger?  What are you thinking?  What if you fall and can’t get up?  What if you pass out?  If Cato doesn’t kill you, Katniss will.

Step by step, I begin to head to the mouth of the cave.  Looking back at Katniss, she is still fast asleep.  Maybe if I just walk to that pine tree about ten yards away.  Maybe I could do it, and come back to the cave.  It is risky, and reckless.  Katniss won’t appreciate it.  I know that much. 

First step out of the cave is easy.  The second is more natural because it is with my right leg.  I can begin to bend my left leg.  That isn’t because I am healing, I am just coming to terms with the pain.  My lungs expand.  The infection is spreading I can feel.  It’s in my stomach.  It is not yet in my lungs, I don’t think. 

Fits of coughing come around the fifth step.  I am only about halfway to the tree.  “A few more,” I say audibly.  “Just a few more.”  I puke twice, then touch the tree. 

Traveling back to the cave is counterintuitively easier.  I make it back inside in less than twelve steps, but it was still a challenge.  I breathe heavily, unable to catch my breath.  I just can’t wake Katniss.  She needs rest.  Relax.  Just relax. 

I slump back against the wall, extend my leg like I did before, and watch Katniss sleep.  At least I’m not sleepy anymore.  I feel sicker than anything.  Breathing is harder, my body requires more breath than normal.  A strange wheezing sound escapes my throat with each inhalation.  I don’t know why.  The pain of the infection stabs my lungs.  I cough lightly, trying not to breathe as much.  Trying to survive, just long enough.  I do this for hours, wheezing in peace, watching the mouth of the cave.  Waiting for the infection to slowly pierce my organs into submission, into giving up. 

The sun has progressed to late afternoon, I feel.  It is cool but not cold.  Strangely comfortable for the arena.  How long did it take me to walk that short distance?  By the look of the sky afterwards, a few hours minimum.  I put myself in more danger than I thought I did.  I’ve decided not to tell Katniss what I did.  I don’t think she will appreciate that.  Even though the progress of my leg is noteworthy, the way I discovered it is too dangerous to speak of.  I can’t be that reckless again. 

Speaking of, Katniss sits up abruptly, bow in hand, erect for the new day she has awoken to.  Only, she doesn’t appear to be happy about her slumber.  I can tell that she is better rested by the look in her eyes, but Katniss isn’t happy.  “Peeta, you were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours.”  She rubs her eyes, but keeps her attention fixed on me.  Her beautiful grey eyes take my breath away.  

“For what?”  I shrug.  “Nothing’s going on here.  Besides I like watching you sleep.”  That sounded creepy the way I said it.  Hopefully Katniss is still too groggy to pay too close attention to my choice of words.  “You don’t scowl.  Improves your looks a lot,” I tease.  Her glare at me is that of a scowl, which of course makes me laugh.  The horrible wheezing sound returns, making me stop laughing immediately.  She can’t help but laugh as well. 

Katniss leans in, puts her hand on my cheek, but not in an affectionate way.  She is checking my temperature.  I can tell she is hiding her concern, but I can sense that she is not optimistic about my condition.  She isn’t nearly as optimistic about it as I am.  I wish I could tell her about my walk, but she will just scold me.  I don’t need that. 

She begins to tend to my various wounds not relating to my leg such as the tracker jacker stings that I haven’t even noticed since the cave.  She is a good healer for what it’s worth.  She makes me remove my shirt as she puts some burn cream on my chest.  I don’t know why she had it.  Maybe she was injured.  Some of Katniss’ clothes are torn.  Her jacket is scorched, and her pant leg is destroyed, but I don’t see any noticeable burns on her.  Maybe that is how good this stuff is. 

Shen she gets to my leg, she unwraps the white cotton bandage, and my thigh is exposed.  It has increased in swelling probably about twenty percent I would guess.  The streak marks that show how bad the blood poisoning is progressing are more obvious.  They are actually redder and purple.  If she didn’t notice before, she notices now.  I can see the look on her face.  The look of utter hopelessness for my condition.  The expression of seeing a dead man walking as she stares at me in the face.  My heart rate increases, I begin sweating, and the wheezing sound recommences.  I am dying.  That is the problem. 

She just looks at it, and back at me, then back at my thigh, and back at me.  Katniss isn’t trying to hide her concern, if she even realizes that she is staring.  “Well there is more swelling,” she says.  Her voice is audibly shaking and nervous.  This isn’t because of any smell or level of disgust.  She is concerned, afraid I will die too soon.  “But the puss is gone.”  She half smiles. 

“I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss.  Even if my mother isn’t a healer.”  I know this must have sounded blunt to her, but I need her to know that I know my condition.  I know that I am dying.  I expected to die.  I expected nothing less of death since I heard Effie Trinket drew my name a shockingly short while ago at the reaping.  I have come to terms with death.  I will welcome death as an old friend.

The only difference is, now death is more tangible of a subject.  It is more real.  It isn’t something in the distant future that everyone knows is inevitable but shrugs it off for a later time.  It isn’t something that is frightening either.  It is just reality.  When someone’s mortality is pointed out to them, they realize this to be the case.  It isn’t a frightening or tragic event.  It is just a wakeup call. 

“You’re just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta.”  Fat chance.  If Thresh and Cato and Clove are still out there, healthy and alert, they can play these Games for years on end.  They know what they’re doing.  “They’ll cure it back at the Capitol when we win.” 

“Yes, that’s a good plan.”  It is, I’ll admit.  I guess that is all we have going for us.  Time is all that is on our side.  We could live here for a long time.  Assuming I can outlast the infection.  Assuming we are not caught.

“You have to eat.  Keep your strength up.  I’m going to make you soup.”  She gathers some spare pine from around the cave.  I am still sitting, rewrapping my leg in the cotton. 

“Don’t light a fire.  It’s not worth it.”  All I can think of is how actively Cato and Clove may be searching for me.  Neither of them have seen my face in the sky.  I know they know I have survived.  What they don’t know is how, and where.  I, along with Katniss, are their top priorities. 

“We’ll see,” is all that she says as she continues gathering the sticks. 

Katniss gives up at the idea of starting a fire; she leaves the cave, and I have no idea why.  Maybe she just needs some time alone to plan things out or to think.  I don’t know.  All I can think of at this point in the Games is how, ironically, they have been the best thing that has ever happened to me.  I never was one to believe in fate. 

The Baker always used to tell me, “There is always a one for you, boy.  You just have to know where to find her.  It may not be that simple, or obvious, but somehow, someway, you will find her.”  He was kneading some dough that time he was talking to me.  It wasn’t long ago, actually.  This was maybe six months ago.  We were making that familiar family bread that I tossed to Katniss.  That kind with the spices and nuts and raisins.  That kind I loved making because it reminded me of her. 

“But, what if I don’t ever find her?  What then?”  The Baker halts his work, claps flour off of his hands and arms, wipes them on his black apron, and sits next to me on the table.  Mother used to hate when we would sit directly on the countertop, but like the Baker, I used to do it all the time when she wasn’t around. 

“Peeta, I thought I found the one when I was very young.  I remember being so in love with her that I would physically be sick to my stomach just thinking about her.”

“Why?  That doesn’t make sense.”  I don’t know what he is talking about.  I am starving though, and not entirely fully intent on his words.  Last time I ate was last night. 

“Well, Peeta, you know that feeling you get when you’re falling?”  I nod, recalling the last time I fell.  I was on the roof, fixing a loose shingle, lost my balance, and luckily fell in a pile of hay which broke my fall.  “That’s what I felt like.  Every time I saw her, I would fall.  I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t focus.”  He gazes off, staring at nothing, smiling like an idiot.  I can tell these are fond memories he cherishes.  I just hope that one day I will be able to feel that way about someone. 

“But you didn’t end up with her, did you?  She married the coal miner.  You ended up with mom.” 

“That’s right,” he says with a smile on his face.  “I love your mother, and I wouldn’t change the past for the world.  Everything I have experienced, every bad thing that has happened to me, every disappointment, and heck, making the wedding cake for her and the coal miner’s wedding was all worth it in the end.  Your mother isn’t ‘the one’ for me like she was, but I wouldn’t take Ms. Everdeen back for the world if I could have.  I wouldn’t change the past.” 

“Why not?” I ask innocently. 

“Because your mother gave me you, Peeta.”  He slaps my shoulder, jumps off the edge of the table and continues beating the dough. 


	22. Chapter 22

Katniss presents me the silverware pot of soup.  I don’t ask what is in it because, quite honestly, I am afraid what is in it.  It must be some of that groosling and herbs of some kind.  I don’t know.  I am also certain there are rocks in this.  I don’t question.  With each bite, my stomach pleads with my mind, telling me to stop.  I continue eating, knowing it is what Katniss wants. 

“Do you want anything?”  She asks very softly and subtly like she is afraid to interrupt me.  I think she is concerned for me mostly.  To her, I am dying. 

“No.  Thank you.  Wait,” mid bite, I think of something I could use.  I still barely know anything about the girl with the braids.  “Tell me a story.” 

“A story?  What about?” she smiles, caught off-guard by the strange request. 

“Something happy.  Tell me about the happiest day you can remember.” 

Katniss pauses a long moment.  I think it is because she is careful about wording.  When you are not only telling a story to one person, but probably the entire country, you will choose your words carefully. 

“Did I ever tell you how I got Prim’s goat?”  I shake my head, but I know what she is talking about.  The Baker buys Prim’s cheese often, and almost always overpays.  I have seen that goat countless times.  Prim is a sweet little girl, I get the feeling Katniss loves her as if she were her own daughter in a way; caring to her every need the way she is doing to me now.  She is too experienced in the art of caring for someone for it to be all improvised.  I can tell that everything she is doing for me now has been done to someone she loves dearly, like Prim.  “Well, my mother gave me this little silver locket when I was a girl.  I was saving it for something big.  I needed to buy something for Prim for her tenth birthday.” she thinks for a while.  Don’t think I don’t know why.  She doesn’t want Panem to know she hunts illegally.  I respect that, but I would love to hear where she really got the money.  “Anyway, I went with my cousin Gale to find something for Prim.  It was late afternoon, and we were afraid the stores would close before I could get something.  I was mainly thinking about making her a dress, and I had fabric chosen, but something caught my eye.”  I am leaning on every word at this point.  I know Katniss is now telling the truth.  “It was this small herd of goats an old man kept near the edge of the Seam.  I knew of him, as did Gale.  Prim would like a dress, I thought, but I know that she would have forgotten about the dress as soon as she saw one of the goats.  She loves animals.  She loves living things mostly.”  Katniss smiles at me, sending a chill up my spine.  I just remember that conversation I had with the Baker.  I remember what he told me he felt about Katniss’ mother before she married her father.  I am feeling that now.  I feel that falling sickness.  “Anyway, one of the white goats with dark patches was sitting in a cart.  It was obviously ill.  I knew Prim would just love it.  ‘Gale, I want that goat for Prim,’ I said to him.  Goats are a lifesaver in the Seam.  They can eat anything, and they make enough milk to drink, sell, and make into cheese.  He said to me, ‘She’s hurt pretty bad, we’d better take a closer look.’  Anyway, long story short, I got the goat.  Prim named her Lady.  The old man was a hard sell.  Even though the goat was attacked by a wild animal, he still had his heart bent on turning her into sausage.  We paid the price of what the butcher wanted.  Lady was just in such bad shape, she couldn’t even be turned to sausage.  He did agree to give it to us, and that was that.  I bought a pink ribbon, and tied it around her neck.  Gale carried her home, and” she laughs recalling this event, “you should have seen Prim’s face.”  I can tell she misses her sister dearly.  She volunteered for her.  She loves Prim.  “She started crying and laughing at once.  Mother of course, didn’t look optimistic at all.  She nursed Lady back to health eventually, with Gale’s help.”

“They sound like you,” I comment. 

“Oh, no, Peeta.  They work magic.  That thing couldn’t have died if it tried.”  Though she is talking about a goat, I get a strange feeling about my situation in Katniss’ hands.  She realizes the poor choice in her wording, but I don’t mind such a small blunder. 

“Don’t worry.  I’m not trying.”  She takes my hand in hers, and runs her thumb over the top of my hand.  I don’t think she even realizes she is doing this, but as sure as I am living and breathing, she is.  That was the most genuine gesture of affection I have ever felt.  It was so simple, yet it spoke loads to how she feels.  “Finish the story,” I whisper softly to remind her I am listening. 

“Well, that’s it.  Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady on a blanket next to the fire.  And just before they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giving her a goodnight kiss or something.  It was already mad about her.” 

“Was it still wearing the pink ribbon?”  I ask.  

“I think so, why?” she replies that simply. 

“I’m just trying to get a picture.  I can see why that day made you happy.”  She smiles down at me.

“Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine.” 

“Yes, of course,” I joke, “I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping.”  I have to get Katniss home, I realize.  To hell with the rule change!  I can’t even let the attraction of survival warp the reality about our situation.  We will die if we stay here.  I have to get better.  I have to get better like the goat, and survive!  If I don’t, we will only be found.  What can we do?  Well. I was able to make it to the pine tree today, what about tomorrow?  Maybe I could go even farther tomorrow!  I don’t know, but we can’t stay here, waiting to be caught and killed!  I have to do something tomorrow, no tonight!  I have to ensure Katniss’ survival.  She has to get home to Prim. 

“The goat has paid for itself.  Several times over,” she says in an annoyed tone, dropping my hand. 

“Well, it wouldn’t dare do anything else after you saved its life.”  She raises her eyes to mine, and I smile.  “I intend to do the same thing.” 

“Really?  What did you cost me again?”  She asks. 

“A lot of trouble.  Don’t worry.  You’ll get it _all_ back,” I say with my normal hint of sarcasm. 

“You’re not making sense,” she says as she places her hands on my forehead, testing my temperature.  By the look on her face and tone in her voice, it has only gotten worse.  I don’t care.  I don’t care about my wellbeing anymore; just Katniss’.  “You’re a little cooler though.”

Trumpets blare, and I hear the same booming voice of the man who offered Katniss and I salvation.  Claudius Templesmith, the man who told us we could survive together, his voice booms overhead.  Katniss is startled, I keep my composer a little better than she does at this point. 

What does he want?  Another rule change?  What could he possibly have to say?  Anything at this point is no big change.  Nothing too drastic could be done unless he is warning us about the arena shrinking by morning, and unless we don’t want to be squished like little beetles under his boot, we better get out now!

“Good evening, Tributes, the cause for the interruption of your Games is my invitation to you for a feast.”  He lingers on the word “feast.”  “Now hold on.  Some of you may already be declining my invitation.  But this is no ordinary feast.”  Katniss’ and my eyes meet in confusion.  “Each of you needs something desperately.  Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your District number, at the Cornucopia at dawn.  Think hard about refusing to show up.  For some of you, this will be your last chance.” 

I feel the sweat bead on my forehead with each passing word of Claudius, as Katniss considers well this situation, knowing that escaping my illness is impossible, I fear that her feelings for me may cause her harm.  I reach from behind, arms shaking out of pure anxiety.  My nausea comes back with a vengeance.  I see circles.

“No,” I pull her shoulder, and our eyes meet in fear.  I can only imagine how crazy and ill I look now.  “You’re not risking your life for me.”  I grip her tightly in my hand, shaking like a leaf, going crazy thinking about all of the horrible things that could possibly happen.

“Who said I was,” she says as she shrugs off my shoulder.  I feel almost relieved but even so a little hurt.  This is a very funny emotion.  The lover cannot be pleased, I guess.  As a lover, it is in my best interest to be vulnerable, weak, and hurt.  But not so hurt that she has to put herself in danger to heal me!

“So you’re not going?”  I ask curiously.  Again, I don’t know exactly how I feel about that. 

“Of course I’m not going.  Give me some credit.  Do you think I’m running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh?  Don’t be stupid,” she says.  I am relieved, but confused about how I feel.  I really should be happy, I guess.  “I’ll let them fight it out, we’ll see who’s in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there.”  She is lying.  I know it.  I can tell when she is a mile away. 

“You’re such a bad liar, Katniss.  I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.”  I begin to mimic her in my frustration.  “ _I knew that goat would be a little gold mine.  You’re a little cooler though.  Of course, I’m not going.”_ She doesn’t appreciate that I know her better than she thinks.  “Never gamble at cards.  You’ll lose your last coin.” 

Anger fills her face, and this is for real.  “Alright,” she exclaims, “I am going, and you can’t stop me!”  She stands to her feet and grabs her bow and arrows. 

“I can follow you.  At least partway.”  I stand to my feet too.  I am sturdier than I have ever been.  “I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I’m yelling your name, I bet someone can find me.”  My bluff is far more convincing, because I can see in her expressions she believes me.  “And then I’ll be dead for sure.” 

“You won’t get a hundred yards from here on that leg.”

“Then I’ll drag myself.  You go and I’m going too.”  I have to at least make that point clear.  It isn’t worth it.  The medicine isn’t worth it if she is dead.  I cannot live with that.  I cannot live knowing she could have survived.  I could never repay her sister.  I could never forgive myself. 

“What am I supposed to do?”  She half yells this question, being mindful of her volume.  I can tell she is getting emotional, and I think I see a tear roll down her cheek.  “Sit here and watch you die?” 

“I won’t die,” I say as I take the sturdiest steps I have taken since the tree.  “I promise.  If you promise not to go.” 

“Then you have to do what I say.”  She follows immediately, almost as if she knew I would react this way.  “Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!”  Her anger is a bit frightening, but it is fair enough.  I smile and nod in agreement to her terms. 

“Agreed.  Is it ready?”  I try and keep my level of enthusiasm at a high for her sake.  She needs to know that I am fine.  She needs to see that I can improve without the help of the medicine.  I know I can, but I only sweat more and more.  

“Wait here.”  She escapes the cave just long enough for me to suspect that she is making her way for the Cornucopia, but no.  Returns with repulsive soup that I eat willingly.  I trick myself into thinking it is delicious because I need her to stay, and this is the condition.  I even lick the bowl; I am realizing how hungry I actually am regardless of what my stomach is telling me to feel.  I have to do it, though.  I have to.

Katniss is not the least bit happy, I can tell.  I know she wants to make me better.  I know that, but I cannot let her fall for that false hope.  She will die.  That is Cato and Clove’s element.  Surprise and straight attacks are their tactics.  Katniss is a hunter.  That’s it.  She tracks, stalks, and kills.  She doesn’t battle.  She doesn’t fight. 

She left the cave to wash the silverware pot, and comes back a while later.  I wonder why it took her so long.  I am drifting off to sleep anyway.  For some reason I am tired. 

She returns with the pot, only there is more food in it.  My appetite is returning slightly, so that is a more appealing offer for me than she probably thinks.  “I’ve brought you a treat,” she says with a smile on her face.  She spoon feeds me for some reason, I don’t know why.  She hasn’t had to do that for me recently.  “I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream.”  Why is she spoon feeding me? 

I open up, and she loads my mouth with the overly, unnaturally sweet berries.  It is so sweet, I cringe at the taste, not expecting so much sweetness.  Honestly, I don’t like sweet things too much anyway.  Never had a taste for candy before, or jam.  “They’re very sweet,” I say with the cringed expression on my face. 

“Yes, they’re sugar berries.  My mother makes jam from them.  Haven’t you ever had them before?”  Sugar berries.  I never heard of such a thing.  Why would she be lying now?  What could she be hiding?  Still, she could be sneaking me some medicine without me noticing.  I have never tasted any medicine this sweet before.  I don’t think, at least. 

“No.  But they taste familiar.  Sugar berries?”  I would know of them.  Anything that could be found in District Twelve would be incorporated in a pastry.  I would have heard of them.  Still, there is that something or other that I recognize.  What is it?  I take a few more mouthfuls until a good half of it is gone.  I remember the deal. 

“Well you can’t get them at the market much, they only grow wild.”  I only need to eat a few more bites to fulfil my side of the agreement. 

“They’re sweet as syrup.”  Oh, no.  That’s what it is.  “Syrup,” I say openly.  I remember that when I cut open my arm, Miss Everdeen gave me this syrup.  She had me drink a good two spoonful’s, and the taste is identical.  That syrup made me pass out for a good half day so she could sew up my arm. 

Katniss is putting me to sleep.  I don’t know why.  Oh, no.  She is going to the Cornucopia!  She knows I would follow her, but if she knocks me out, I can’t.  She can do whatever she wants.  She is going. 

I try to spit out the remainder, horrified at her dishonesty, but no.  She holds my mouth closed as I fall asleep, unconscious. 


	23. Chapter 23

Has it been a day?  Two maybe?  It is raining.  I open my eyes, and this is it.  The cave.  Water drips from the mouth continuously through the downpour.  I slept the sleep of the dead.  Not a single dream.  Time did not exist.  Five minutes ago, I was eating berries laced with sleeping syrup.  Katniss tried to knock me out.  Katniss!  Left to right I turn, and there she is.  Lying in a pool of blood.  “Oh no.” 

What have you done?  Why did you do that?  Damn you, Katniss!  It wasn’t worth it!  I’m fine now, I swear it!  I’m fine!

I get up, and run the short distance to her.  “Katniss,” I say.  My voice is shaky, and I can feel all kinds of emotions taking me over.  She has a gash on her forehead that must definitely have come from a sharp object.  I check her pulse.  “Oh, thank god,” she’s alive.  Quickly, I set her down very carefully, run to her supplies where she pulled out those cotton bandages for my leg.  I pull out some extra, and walk gracefully over to her limp body.  After tending to her wound, and making sure the bleeding had stopped, I look over to where I was lying. 

A small needle and syringe lay there, empty.  “Damn you, Katniss.” I say out loud.  Looking down to my leg, the swelling has gone down such that my legs are almost the same size.  I have a hard time bending it, and standing upright on it, but that is just because I had my thigh slashed open.  Looking below my underwear line, and at the site of the gash, there are no streak marks anymore.  Whatever she shot into my arm cured me. 

Just to make sure, I take a deep breath, then another, then another.  I feel the smooth refreshing sensation of breathing without wheezing.  Breathing without getting lightheaded, breathing without having a fit of coughing.  It is nice, but was it worth it?

I am well.  I am completely fine.  Well, except for the fact that I feel like I could eat an entire tree.  I eat some groosling without even thinking that I should ration it. 

“Thank you, Katniss.”  I am appreciative, but what happened?  She was clearly in confrontation with another tribute.  Did she kill them?  What happened?  Do they know where we are?  Who was it?  When?  How did she escape?  My head floods with questions.  I try to compare the amount of arrows she has now to that before she knocked me out.  I can’t tell the difference.

I check back on her after I keep watch of the mouth of the cave for a few hours, just to make sure she is okay.  She is still laying in some blood, but that’s okay I guess.  As long as Cato can’t smell blood a mile away, I think we’re fine.  A face shines in the sky.  Could it really be Clove?  That’s who it is, and it shows a bright “2” underneath.  Maybe Katniss really bested a Career.  Good for her.  That must have been what the gash on her forehead is from.  Clove must have thrown a knife at her or something.  She likes her knives. 

My mind goes back to Cato.  I can’t help but feel guilty, feel like I owe him something too.  I feel like he was the victim.  He had a chance with Clove, and now, that chance was taken away.  It is my fault.  It is my fault she died.  Recalling his curse to me, that I would be tricked without even knowing it, I want to think that it was fulfilled when Katniss knocked me out, but I know that wasn’t it.  That isn’t what he was prophesizing. 

Cato, he was quite the prophet.  He predicted my little betrayal, he predicted me being deceived, and he predicted something else.  Just what was it?  I want to think he was talking about the Capitol, that even they have a phase three, that the smallest bit of defiance or resistance, like the betrayal of tributes in a career pack could send the whole system crumbling to its knees.  Could send Panem crumbling to its knees.  I don’t know.  I think I am putting words in his mouth.  I think I am putting too much value on his words.  They were just words after all.  That’s all they were, right? 

I sit up the rest of the night, just thinking. I don’t particularly linger on any subject, I am just overcome by thought. 

“Katniss,” I say gently.  I nudge her until she wakes.  “Katniss, can you hear me?” 

She opens her eyes, expresses fright, then relief.  She smiles warmly at me.  “Peeta.” 

“Hey,” is all I can say with a stupid smile of relief on my face.  “Good to see your eyes again.”  That’s true.  It really was good to see her eyes again. 

“How long have I been out?”  She rubs her eyes from exhaustion. 

“Not sure.  I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood.”  I brush aside some hair from her forehead, and inspect the bandage.  “I think it’s stopped finally, but I wouldn’t sit up or anything.” 

Katniss is still laying down.  I doubt she will be able to stand or even sit up.  She feels the bandage with her hand.  I take her canteen, help her sit up slightly, and nurse her as she did me just days ago. 

After three big gulps, she notices, “you’re better.”  I nod.

“Much better.  Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick.  By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone.”  It is true.  Besides the muscle damage, the medicine cured it.  I think it is taking care of even that too.  I can almost bend my leg completely.  I am almost back to normal, I just need more time. 

“Did you eat?”  She asks, slowly sitting up. 

“I’m sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while.  Don’t worry.  I’m back on a strict diet.”  I do feel bad for that.  I know how precious food is in the arena.  Ironically Claudius’ feast didn’t include actual food I doubt. 

“No, it’s good,” she says.  “You need to eat.  I’ll go hunting soon.” 

“Not too soon, all right?” I have her lay back down, and stand the canteen in an upright position outside of the cave to fill up.  “You just let me take care of you for a while.” 

The cave surely is a leaky one.  Some of the leaky parts of the cave need to be plugged with something.  Katniss points to her bag, and I find a sheet of plastic inside.  I take it, and make a type of canopy above Katniss to keep her dry.  “Your boots and socks are still damp,” I took those off of her a while ago just by instinct.  “And the weather’s not helping much.” 

Thunder claps, and the sky outside lights up as if it were a light to be turned on.  A huge spotlight of some kind.  I almost got a glimpse of the outer shell of the arena.  It is a giant screen shaped in a dome.  In that split second the lightning struck, I could have sworn I saw it.  So the arena is both.  Nature, and creation.  The natural vegetation, the created dome.

“I wonder what brought on this storm,” I comment.  “I mean, who’s the target?”   

Without hesitation, Katniss replies, “Cato and Thresh.”  I sit down next to Katniss as she tells me a bit of what happened while I was knocked out. 

“Foxface will be in her den somewhere, and Clove… She cut me and then…” 

“I know Clove’s dead,” I say as Katniss’ voice begins to fail her.  It must have been extremely traumatic.  I am thankful nonetheless.  “I saw it in the sky last night.  Did you kill her?”  I just have to know. 

“No.  Thresh broke her skull with a rock.”  Yup, that sounds about right.  I remember Thresh on the first day.  I remember how strong he was.  He is strong, but he is clumsy too.  I believe it. 

“Lucky he didn’t catch you, too.” 

“He did.  But he let me go.”  She has some explaining.  I don’t say anything, she knows that I expect some kind of explanation.  “Well, since the tracker jackers at the tree, Rue, from District Eleven has been the one I allied with.  We had this plan to destroy the Career’s food stash and everything, which we did.  I rigged the stash to blow from the mines at the Cornucopia.” 

“How did you do that?”  I ask very skeptically.  I see no lying in her eyes, but still, that is a bit fantastic. 

“I didn’t myself, one of the Careers did it.  He was trained in that sort of thing, whatever, beside the point.  They set up the mines around the stash so no one would get to it.  I ended up shooting at apples to detonate the mines.  That is why the Careers are ‘desperate’ for something.  They have no stash of supplies.  We have had a clear chance at winning this thing.”  That is interesting.  I remember the boy that Cato commissioned to rig the mines.  I didn’t expect him to do much with it.  I guess they set up the mines around the food stash, and Katniss was able to use it against them.  I also remember that this is a common tactic of the careers.  They gather all the supplies and feed off of it throughout the Games.  Of the few games that a Career did not win, a contributing factor was the loss of the supply stash.  I remember that much at least. 

“How does this relate?”  I ask again. 

“We were attacked,” she begins slowly.  “Rue was run through with a spear from the boy from District One.” 

“Marvel,” I add. 

“I shot him.  Sung Rue to death, and Thresh respected that.  He knew Rue before the Games, I’m guessing.  I buried her.”  Katniss is slightly emotional about this topic.  I know she is telling me the truth and I don’t question that. 

“He let you go because he didn’t want to owe you anything?”  I ask curiously. 

“Yes.  I don’t expect you to understand it.  You’ve always had enough.  But if you’d lived in the Seam, I wouldn’t have to explain.”  Her eyes trail up to mine, and I cannot believe she would assume something so absurd.  I understand Katniss has suffered her whole life, I do.  But why does she think I haven’t? 

“And don’t try.”  I say passive aggressively.  “Obviously I’m too dim to get it.” 

“It’s like the bread,” she grabs my left arm as I turn around in anger.  “How I never seem to get over owing you for that.”  I turn around, confused at that.  She does remember.  She does remember that act completely.  That makes sense in a way.  I flash back to that look she gave me when we met at the reaping.  I remember her weak handshake.  Did she remember then?

“The bread?  What?  From when we were kids?”  I laugh a little, beginning to understand that she didn’t mean to offend me.  “I think we can let that go.  I mean, you just brought me back from the dead.” 

“But you didn’t know me,” she insists like she knows my mind.  Oh I knew you, Katniss.  I knew you, girl with the braids.  “We had never even spoken.  Besides, it’s the first gift that’s always the hardest to pay back.  I wouldn’t even have been here to do it for you hadn’t helped me then.”  I sit down, still a little offended at her remark about me.  “Why did you, anyway?”  She asks curiously, with a hint of emotional curiosity. 

“Why?”  I stand to my feet, face her, and stare her in her grey eyes.  “You know why.”  She shakes her head, and flinches at the fresh pain of her forehead.  “Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing.”  I am going nowhere with that.  I have nothing there.  Haymitch only instructed me to milk this feeling.  Or was that Portia?  I can’t even remember.  I can barely remember back to any interaction with him.  It has felt like a year since I have seen any of my prep team, or Haymithch, or Portia. 

“Haymitch?”  She asks.  “What’s he got to do with it?” 

“Nothing,” I say with my hand on my eyebrows.  “So, Cato and Thresh, huh?  I guess it’s too much to hope that they’ll simultaneously destroy each other?”

“I think we’d like Thresh,” she says, probably including him in her memories with Rue, the poor girl.  “I think he’d be our friend back in District Twelve.”  Katniss sits back in her spot like nothing had happened. 

“Then let’s hope Cato kills him, so we don’t have to.”  The words feel foreign and not mine.  They feel like the perversion of Peeta Mellark the Baker warned me to prevent.  I flinch after speaking them.  I can see Katniss beginning to get emotional.  I regret my words as she probably does.  “What is it?”  I ask looking down at her.  “Are you in a lot of pain?” 

“I want to go home, Peeta.”  The vulnerability of Katniss is obvious.  I sympathize with her greatly.  I understand what she means. 

“You will, I promise.”  I bend over, kiss her gently, and stand back up, erect.  Her eyes are shut from the kiss.  She must be exhausted. 

“I want to go home now,” she says.  No luck for you there, sweetheart. 

“Tell you what,” I say as I gather the sleeping bag, and open it.  “You go back to sleep and dream of home.  And you’ll be there for real before you know it.”  She rolls in the bag quietly and briskly.  “Okay?”  I ask her. 

“Okay,” she whispers.  She’s exhausted I can tell.  “Wake me if you need me to keep watch.” 

“I’m good and rested thanks to you, and Haymitch.”  I see her blush a little out of guilt when I say that.  “Besides, who knows how long this will last?”  She looks confused.  I doubt she understood what I meant.  What I meant was this peace.  This moment.  Being with her.  Who knows how long that beautiful moment will last?  I don’t know if we will be caught, or killed, or if we end up starving to death.  I don’t know that we are going to survive, but I can surely do everything in my power to make sure Katniss survives.  That is it.  That is all I know.  Who knows how long this peace, this chemistry will last.


	24. Chapter 24

I have to wake Katniss up. I wish I could let her sleep, but my stomach won’t wait anymore.  The ceiling of the cave is leaking greatly.  Katniss’ stash of groosling, roots, and dried fruits is the only thing I care about at this point.  I shake her shoulder very gently, and she jumps up awake.  After she discovers it’s me, she calms down a little.  “Should we try and ration it?”  I ask.  It takes a few seconds for her to understand what I’m talking about when she sees the food. 

“No, let’s just finish it.  The groosling is just getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off of spoiled food.”  She divides the food evenly, and we wolf it down within the minute.  Well, I do at least.  She is a bit slower, but not much of an improvement. 

“Tomorrow’s a hunting day,” she says mid chew. 

“I won’t be much help with that,” I say.  “I’ve never hunted before.”  I hope Katniss knows that if she admits to having been a hunter back in District Twelve that could put her in jeopardy with the Capitol.  That is highly illegal.  Heck, even the trades we do at the Hob is illegal because it is a “practice of capitalism.” 

“I’ll kill and you cook.  And you can always gather.”  That at least makes me feel a little better about being next to no help at all.  Meh, I could make it a bit of a competition.  I bet I could gather more than she can hunt.  Eh, who am I kidding?  We both would know that isn’t true.  I’m a baker like my father. 

“I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there,” which must have been the single stupidest thing I said since we met.

“The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm.  Here, chew these.”  She hands me some mint leaves.  I know that by the smell, and as usual, I recognize it from a pastry I helped make.  We never used the actual leaves though.  “Where did Thresh go?  I mean, what’s on the far side of the circle?” 

Honestly I don’t know too well.  The only thing I know about the far side of the arena is what I saw directly after the initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia, as well as what was told me that very night.  I was never there.  “A field.  As far as you can see it’s full of grasses as high as my shoulders.  I don’t know, maybe some of them are grain.”  I struggle to remember what I think I saw.  “There are patches of different colors.  But there are no paths.” 

“I bet some of them are grain,” she says.  “I bet Thresh knows which ones, too.  Did you go in there?” 

“No.” I blurt.  It’s true.  Honestly, I am glad.  The circumstances may be completely different had we gone in.  I remember when I convinced them to go for the woods in search for Katniss.  “Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in that grass.  It has a sinister feeling to it.  Every time I look at that field,” I begin, searching for words, “all I can think of are hidden things,” I say, looking in her beautiful grey eyes.  “Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand.  There could be anything in there.” 

Katniss thinks, considers my words, and I know she must be questioning my testimony.  I mean, she is the kind of person that breaks the law each day to hunt beyond the fence.  She is listening to what I am telling her, thinking about all the animals that she could hunt.  She is probably considering well that there is food there.  I mean, how else would Thresh survive?  No tribute has ever been so favored to have been given each meal to them by their sponsors.  “Maybe there is a bread bush in that field,” she says with a sinister smile, almost expecting me to reject that.  “Maybe that’s why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games.” 

He looks better fed?  That’s certainly not encouraging.  “Either that or he’s got very generous sponsors.  I wonder what we’d have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread.” 

Katniss raises her eyebrow in a seductive manner, and I don’t understand.  She suddenly shakes that expression off her face, and blushes.  I am afraid to know what just went through her mind.  I never thought of Katniss as being forward before.

“Well,” she takes my hands, “he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out.”

“Yea, about that,” I pull her close to me.  “Don’t try something like that again,” I try and sound serious, but Katniss doesn’t hear it that way. 

“Or what?”  She asks me with a stupid smile on her face. 

“Or… or… just give me a minute.”  I try and think of a more serious way to communicate how I feel about what she did.  I know Katniss still thinks I’m joking with her, but I’m not.  I’m really not.

“What’s the problem?”  She still smiles ridiculously which is very contagious.  She puts her hands on my rib cage, standing close to me.

“The problem is we’re both still alive.  Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing.”  I take back her hands in mine.

“I did do the right thing,” her tone is serious.

“No!  Just don’t Katniss!”  I still clutch her hands, gripping them tighter.  I can sense pain in her.  She looks like a skittish deer that could prance away at any moment.  “Don’t die for me.”  It’s not right that she would do this for me when she has so much to live for back home.  “You won’t be doing me any favors.  All right?” 

“Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta,” she drops my hands, “did you ever think about that?  Maybe you aren’t the only one who… who worries about… what it would be like if…”  Her voice collects with emotion and I can feel this conversation is going downhill fast. 

Looking in her eyes, taking those two steps toward her, taking her soft hands in mine, looking in her eyes, I can tell that Katniss isn’t doing this for any material gain for the Games.  She is genuine about how she feels.  She love me just as much as I love her.  She may not know it yet, but I think she does.  “If what, Katniss?” 

“That’s exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of,” which makes no sense.

“Then I’ll just have to fill in the blanks myself.”  I pulls her close in my arms, she leans her chin up, closes her eyes, and kiss.  The first kiss we had where it wasn’t for something.  Katniss wasn’t calming me down, or trying to make me eat some horrible soup.  This was our real kiss that meant everything we both feel for each other.  I can feel it on her lips.  I can feel the way she squeezes her arms behind my shoulders.  I can feel it the way I pull her as close as two people can be. 

I open my eyes during that long magnificent moment, and see a small drop of blood running from the bandage on her forehead.  Katniss’ eyes are still shut, consumed by the moment. 

I break away, but she wants another I can tell.  I lightly peck her on her nose like she did to me before.  The bandage is bleeding.  “I think your wound is bleeding again.  Come on,” I pull her to the sleeping bag, and open it for her.  “Lie down, it’s bedtime anyway.” 

Katniss hands me my jacket which is next to the sleeping bag.  “Only if you put it on,” she insists. 

“Fine,” I mutter as I roll the sleeves over my arms.  She smiles up to me, watching me put on my jacket.  Katniss is exactly how I imagined she would be; kind, gentle, sweet.  “But I have the first watch.” 

“No,” she objects.  “I want the first watch.” 

“You need to get some rest, Katniss.”  She gives me this look that I have only seen from my mother before. 

“So do you, besides, I have the bow.  If I’m on watch and something happens, I will already be up.”  She doesn’t back down; I might as well give her this one.  It makes sense at least. 

“Fine, but you have to stay in the sleeping bag.” 

“So do you,” she snaps. 

“Fine.  Scoot over.”  She opens up the side of the bag, and I scoot in.  She rests on her right side, facing the opening of the cave, wearing some kind of glasses that I assume allow her to see in the dark.  The same ones Glimmer snatched off my face.  I lean on my right side of her, and she makes room for me to get comfortable.  I stretch out my arm, to act as some kind of cushioning for Katniss’ head.  She lays down comfortably, and I throw my other arm over her protectively.  I have never done this before.  I have never felt this way.  Katniss inches closer to me, absorbing the warmth we radiate. 

Sleeping comes naturally in this position.  I nod off faster than I ever have before.  I sleep for a few hours until Katniss needs rest too.  I don’t mind that she needs it.  I am better rested now, and it is in our best interest.  “Tomorrow, when it’s dry,” she says to me, “I’ll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace.”  She trails off on ‘trees,’ falling into a well-deserved slumber. 

The next day is one of the slowest either of us had known since the Games began.  The raining hasn’t stopped, and we barely talk.  We are both famished.  All either of us could think about is food by the next evening.  Moving became such a chore, we just huddle close in the sleeping bag, waiting for the skies to clear. 

Relieving ourselves is the biggest challenge.  Usually we just run from the cave to find a bush or something, but that could encourage big animals or even nearby Tributes to clue in on our whereabouts.  Thankfully the rain washes away every bit of waste matter either of our bodies can expel, which isn’t much at all. 

Bathing is done in the stream next to the cave.  I bathe about once a day, and Katniss usually twice.  Probably to keep herself busy.  We hide our body odors by rubbing mint leaves, pine, and even some nonpoisonous berries on our skin and in the more odorous places on our person.  We have a system.  We could do this for a while.  Just preferably not. 

During that evening on the quiet day, Katniss initiates conversation.  “Peeta,” she begins softly.  “You said at the interview you’d had a crush on me forever.  When did forever start?”  I was glad she asked this question.  It is a story I am always fond to tell. 

“Oh, let’s see,” I begin as if I have to recall on a memory so far in the past.  I really don’t have to.  This is a topic on my mind almost daily at this point.  “I guess the first day of school.  We were five.  You had on a red plaid dress and your hair…” remembering the girl with the braids sends me into that falling sensation the Baker told me made him sick to his stomach whenever he thought about Katniss’ mother.  I feel that for her now.  “It was in two braids instead of one.  My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up.”  All of the emotions I felt as a child, leading up to that moment I saw her for the first time, reregister in my mind.  I am five years old again, staring at the girl with the braids. 

“Your father?”  She asks me.  “Why?”  She doesn’t know?  I have assumed her mother has told her about the Baker before.  Maybe not.  I don’t know her relationship to her mother. 

“He said, ‘See that little girl?  I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.’”

Katniss’ eyes widen in shock.  “What?  You’re making that up!”  She exclaims, completely baffled at my tale.  She probably thinks I am making a good story for the cameras and for the Capitol, but I’m not.  This is all true.  I don’t know how the Baker would feel about me confessing his love for her mother for the entire world to see, but hey.  This was meant to happen I guess.  This may not be the way I always imagined this conversation before in my mind, but you take what you get. 

“No, true story.  And I said, ‘A coal miner?  Why did she want a coal miner if she could’ve had you?’  And he said, ‘Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen.’”  Katniss is completely shocked at this.  I don’t know exactly what she thought I thought of her, but something is different now that I made that confession to her.  I think she is beginning to realize the truth to my tactics, in a way.  Yes, the interview was a tactic.  Yes, I milked the Capitol’s favor for us “star crossed lovers,” but while all that was true, the fundamental truth is that I love Katniss Everdeen.  I think she just now realized that. 

“That’s true.  They do.  I mean, they did,” she fumbles, refusing eye contact.  I wonder what happened to her father.  He was a coal miner.  I thought he died, but that isn’t something I should ask of her now. 

“So that day in music assembly,” continuing my story for her, “The teacher asked who knew the valley song.  Your hand shot right up in the air.  She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us.  And I swear,” pausing a moment, remembering every single detail of that moment in class.  The way the sun shone in the window, against Katniss plaid dress and braids, the way the teacher fumbled to keep her glasses on straight.  The way the stool rocked slightly every time Katniss shuckled to keep tempo.  I remember every detail.  “Every bird outside the windows fell silent.” 

A brief moment of silence directly follows.  I don’t have any more to say.  Katniss is completely thunderstruck by her blank expressionless gaze on me.  “Oh, please,” she bursts out laughing so suddenly, I thought lightning struck the cave. 

“No, it happened.  And right when your song ended, I knew- just like your mother- I was a goner.”  I have to pause, knowing that this is a difficult thing to talk about for me.  So many emotions, so much to tell.  “Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you.” 

“Without success,” she rubs in, like she beat me or something. 

“Without success,” I agree.  “So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck.”  I understand what the Baker meant that day when we sat on the table together.  I know what he meant that he wouldn’t change anything for the world.  He wouldn’t change the circumstance at all, no matter how much it hurt.  I feel that way.

I can’t help but think back to that morning.  I imagine what I would do then had I known what Katniss feels or felt.

Had I the chance, that morning, I would have stopped working, run to the Seam, and found Katniss.  Maybe I would be working on a batch of bread or something, whatever the case, it didn’t matter.  I have to talk to her.  Given the chance, that is what I would do. I would have found her near her home, wearing a leather jacket too big for her, have her hair tied in a single braid, walking to the electric fence to hunt with Gale.  I would still be wearing my apron, flour flying off of me with each stride.  I would stop her, and that confused Katniss glare would shoot in my direction as I called her name. “Hey, it’s me: the boy with the bread.” I would say.  “I just want you to know that today both of our lives will be changed forever.  Neither of us will be the same after this morning.  I also want you to know that we will be okay.  I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will be there for you, Katniss.  I will make sure you are safe, no matter what, whether it be a silly blunder at dinner regarding the avox, the interviews, training, even in the arena, I will join the Careers just to get you what you need.  Hell,” I’d laugh, “if I’m not reaped I will volunteer.  I want to be in there with you, Katniss.  I am only sorry I only came to talk to you here, and now, under these circumstances.  I’m sorry I didn’t have the nerve to talk to you sooner.”  She would just stand there baffled, completely shocked at this, then remember me.  She knows who I am.

Gale would walk up, confused as well, “hey, Katniss, look what the Baker gave me, oh, uh, hi Peeta.  You alright?”  I’d take my eye off Katniss, smile at Gale.

“Yea, Gale, everything’s alright.”  I nod to him.  Feel my throat grow shaky, and my eyes well with tears of joy and relief that finally she knows. 

“Uh, can I help you, Peeta?”  He’d ask.  I know he is probably in love with her too.  How couldn’t he be? 

“No, thanks Gale, I was just telling Katniss how much I loved her.”  I’d say that with the stupidest smile on my face.  He would hand the bread to Katniss, and slug me right in the eye, knocking me down to the ground. 

Only, it won’t hurt.  I will lay in the mud in the Seam, smiling up at the sky, thankful that the girl with the braids finally knows.


	25. Chapter 25

“You have a… remarkable memory,” she says, breaking the silence.  She takes my left hand in her right, gently. 

“I remember everything about you,” with a smile, I turn to her, but also with regret.  I regret they were just observances.  I wish they were interactions.  But then again, I wouldn’t change anything for the world.  These circumstances led me here today.  “You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.” 

“I am now,” she says, drawing nearer and nearer to me in a romantic gesture. 

“Well, I don’t have much competition here,” in my nervousness, I reference Gale Hawthorn, who is probably watching this right now, eyes glued to the screen with jealousy. 

“You don’t have much competition anywhere.”  She takes my hands, pulls them close to her chest, and leans in to kiss me.  Just as our mouths touch, a clank of metal on rock startles us.  We both jump to our feet.  I grab a knife that was Katniss’, and she points her bow at the entrance to the cave. 

It is actually a silver parachute attached to a basket.  I have never seen one of these things before, in person.  That is because I never directly received a gift from a sponsor before.  That’s what it looks like. 

The timing of this gift is rather suspicious.  Such an intimate moment is interrupted by this?  Why?  Is it a message?  I walk out in the rain nonchalantly, Katniss objects, but it’s too late.  I take it in my hands, and hasten back inside.  Handing it to Katniss, she opens it, and inside is this meal of the lamb stew on wild rice I know to be her absolute favorite.  On the side are some apple slices, and goat cheese, along with a few rolls.  So much for starvation. 

“I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve,” I mutter in confusion. 

“I guess so,” she answers, appearing to be equally as confused as I about this meal. 

“We better take it slow on that stew.  Remember the first night on the train?  The rich food made me sick, and I wasn’t even starving then.”  I remember the look on her face.  The look that she has made a mistake about eating.

“You’re right,” she agrees.  “And I could just inhale the whole thing!”  We portion it appropriately to small little piles; only enough to fit in the palm of each of our hands.  Katniss tries to savor it, she fights to not shove the whole pile in her mouth, as do I.  I eat the roll and apple slice respectively.  “I want more,” she says openly.  I agree. 

“Me, too.  Tell you what.  We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving.”  Both of us know that that will be a difficult wait.  Food is here, and the only thing that we wanted all day was food.

“Agreed.  It’s going to be a long hour.” 

“Maybe not that long,” I add.  “What was that you were saying just before the food arrived?  Something about me… no competition… best thing that ever happened to you…”

She blushes very brightly.  “I don’t remember that last part,” she sheepishly admits. 

“Oh, that’s right.”  I try not to blush myself.  “That’s what _I_ was thinking.”  She laughs a little bit, blushing, naturally.  “Scoot over, I’m freezing.” 

We sit inside the sleeping bag, leaning against the back of the cave, her head resting on my shoulder.  We both stare longingly at the food given us by the sponsors.  They send us Silverware and dishes, too.  I wish the cost of those minor objects could be put forward to something else of greater utility to us.  Plates are not weapons.  Silverware isn’t food.

“So,” she begins, “since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?” 

I shake my head, “No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you.” 

“I’m sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam.” 

“Hardly.  But I couldn’t care less.  Anyway, if we make it back, you won’t be a girl from the Seam, you’ll be a girl from the Victor’s Village.”  Yea, about that.  The Capitol built a village in every District to house their victors.  This being District Twelve, and Haymitch being the only living victor of the two originating from Twelve, our Victor’s Village is, well, a ghost town.  Hardly an improvement.  The homes are the richest in the entire District.  The simplest of the ones from Victor’s Village is lusher than the Governor’s mansion. 

“But then,” Katniss says with horror, “our only neighbor will be Haymitch!”  Now, I’m not saying that I want to live in crippling poverty, but I can’t imagine Haymitch being a pleasant neighbor with the most liberal use of that phrase.  He probably sleeps all day and drinks all night.  I could imagine him running around completely naked in the summer, taken over by the poisonous liquid. 

“Ah, that’ll be nice,” I joke as I tighten my arms around Katniss.  She snuggles close, absorbing my heat.  “You and me and Haymitch.  Very cozy.  Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales.” 

“I told you, he hates me!”  She interrupts, rather loudly at that. 

“Only sometimes,” I recall.  “When he’s sober.  I’ve never heard him say one negative thing about you.” 

“He’s never sober!”  She interrupts again.  I’m sure the Capitol is appreciating the comic relief.  Haymitch is almost too easy to make fun of.  It is almost obvious, but we have to indulge the impulse to poke fun.

“That’s right.  Who am I thinking of?  Oh, I know.  It’s Cinna who likes you.  But that’s mainly because you didn’t try to run when he set you on fire.”  I remember that synthetic fire that made us look like champions that night.  I remember the way my heart stopped when I saw Katniss.  “On the other hand, Haymitch… well, if I were you, I’d avoid Haymitch completely.  He hates you.”  My jokes don’t seem lost on Katniss this time, which is a rarity.  She smiles, running her fingers down the soft cloth of my shirt. 

“I thought you said I was his favorite.” 

“He hates me more,” I nod.  “I don’t think people in general are his sort of thing.”  I remember seeing him fall off the stage at the reaping.  I remember how pathetic and horrible he seemed.  Getting to know him, eh, he is still pretty pathetic and horrible, but he is a very helpful ally.  He listened to me.  He did what I wanted which was to help Katniss.

After a while of staring at the food in silence, Katniss voice echoes through the small cave.  “How do you think he did it?”  She asks me. 

“Who?  Did what?” 

“Haymitch.  How do you think he won the Games?”  I think about this long and hard.  I know of Haymitch.  The brief conversations we had exposed a lot about him to me.  The way he cried in the tub, the way he keeps silent at times he would rather not.  The way with his words, his articulate ideas and inspiration.  He is like me.  How would I have survived is the question.  “He outsmarted the others,” I say. 

After maybe forty five minutes, we have to eat again.  Katniss is starving, and I cannot think of anything else.  “There won’t be anything to see tonight,” she says to me as I stare out at the face in the sky while she divvies up the food.  “Nothing’s happened or we would’ve heard a cannon.”  She is telling me to stay inside, I know, but I can’t.  All I can think about is the upcoming turn of events. 

“Katniss,” I whisper.

“What?  Should we split another roll, too?”

“Katniss,” I whisper again. 

“I’m going to split one.  But I’m going to save the cheese for tomorrow.”  I just stare at her until she senses it.  Looking up at me near the mouth of the cave, she is confused.  “What?” 

“Thresh is dead.”  The words just fall out of my mouth. 

“He can’t be,” she defends. 

“They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it.”  I stare back up in the sky, and remember the face.  I remember seeing him on the first day, thinking that he would kill me.  Now I am looking up in the sky at him.  So long, friend. 

“Are you sure?”  She asks, still questioning me.  “I mean, it’s pouring buckets out there.  I don’t know how you can see anything.”  She looks out at the sky, confirms what she doubted, and slumps against the wall of the cave.  I feel the disappointment.  I feel her distress.

“You all right?”  I ask. 

She hugs her chest, and I can sense pain.  I know that they had a mutual agreement because of their relationships to Rue.  I didn’t know Katniss actually grew attached to the idea that he would survive too.  “It’s just… if we didn’t win… I wanted Thresh to.  Because he let me go.”  She looks up to me, and I inch back inside the cave, in case anyone sees me.  “And because of Rue.”  I understand that much.  I really do. 

“Yea, I know.”  Being realistic when emotions are involved is an art form, just like decorating cakes, I guess.  “But this means we’re one step closer to District Twelve.”  I pull a plate she picked in front of her, as I take a seat next to her.  “Eat.  It’s still warm.” 

Katniss voices my greatest fear about these Games.  “It also means Cato will be back hunting us.”  Cato.  The one who will not rest until either of us are dead.  I remember his strict rule with the careers at the beginning of the Games.  ‘Stop for nothing.  Don’t stop until victory.’

“And he’s got supplies again.”  Hope for the best, and plan for the worst. 

“He’ll be wounded I bet.”  Oh yea!  I stuck him with my spear!  That was why he couldn’t finish me off!  He was wounded!  He has a low tolerance for pain, that’s right.  But he would have been wounded when he fought Thresh too. 

I recall back when he convinced me to ally with him after this so called “phase three.”  He told me I could take him.  I could take Thresh.  Maybe I could.  Maybe he was right.  I don’t want Katniss to get her hopes up.  “What makes you say that?”  I ask, probing her knowledge on him.  Maybe she knows something about him. 

“Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight.  He’s so strong, I mean, he was.”  Yea, and I took him, doll-face.  “And they were in his territory.” 

“Good,” I say.  “The more wounded Cato is, the better.”  I don’t want to say any more than that.  I’m surprised Katniss hasn’t asked me any more on him.  I mean, I hunted with the guy.  I could have some valuable knowledge.  “I wonder how Foxface is making out.” 

“Oh, she’s fine,” Katniss says with conviction.  “Probably be easier to catch Cato than her.” 

“Maybe they’ll catch each other and we can just go home.  But we better be extra careful about the watches.  I dozed off a few times,” I admit. 

“Me too, but not tonight.” 

After dinner, Katniss sleeps first.  Honestly I am not that hungry, but I hear her stomach roll in her sleep.  It is distracting, and I don’t like knowing she is uncomfortable.  Looking at her sleeping, she is holding her stomach, scowling and moaning in pain.  I rip a roll in half, prepare it with some cheese and apple slices, and nudge her awake.  Her expression is horror and I don’t know why.  “Don’t be mad, I had to eat again,” I lie.  “Here’s your half.”  I really didn’t eat, but I wanted her to have something.  I knew she wouldn’t accept it unless she knew I ate first, or we at least got to split something.  She is not the taking kind. 

“Oh, good,” she says immediately, taking a huge bite, consuming half of the mass of food at once. 

“We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” I inform her as she wolfs down her food. 

“Bet that’s expensive,” she comments. 

“Too expensive for my family to eat.  Unless it’s gone very stale.  Of course, practically everything we eat is stale.”  I pull the sleeping bag over me, prepare for sleep, and trail off. 

Katniss’ stare lingers on me.  Her brow furrows, questioning that.  Almost like she didn’t know that all I eat is spoiled food and her squirrels, which are a rare treat.  I mean, did she really think that I had a pastry every morning?  I had a hard life too.  I didn’t grow up in the Seam, but I know what it feels like going to bed and waking up hungry only to work all day in a torturously delicious smelling bakery, then go to bed with an empty stomach all over again.  The only difference between me and her is that simple detail.  She is from the Seam.  It is just as ridiculous of me to think she gorges on venison and rabbit every day as it is for her to think I am well fed too.  It is District Twelve.  The only things for certain is poverty and the Hunger Games.  


	26. Chapter 26

I wake up to a bright clear sky.  “We’re wasting hunting time.”  Katniss shakes me awake, and I stumble up in a sitting position. 

“I wouldn’t call it wasting,” I comment.  “So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?”

“Not us,” she replies.  “We stuff ourselves to give us staying power.”  I hardly know what the second part meant, but I know what the first part means.  “Count me in,” I say. 

She divides the rest of the stew, a heaping portion even when divided in half.  I can’t help but question her with a glare when she hands me a plate.  “All this?”  I ask her. 

“We’ll earn it back today.”  That’s a good mentality. 

Katniss drops her fork, and proceeds to eat with her hands.  “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners,” she says with a smile on her face.  The stunt makes me laugh.  I throw my fork behind me, hoping Effie is watching as we speak.  “Hey, Effie, watch this!”  I lick my plate, making comical and gross sounds as I do so.  Katniss laughs so hard she snorts. 

“We miss you, Effie,” she has her eye fixed on a position in the rocks behind us.  I think she knows there is a camera in there.  I don’t know how but she does I guess.  She continues laughing until she considers the following, “Stop!  Cato could be right outside our cave.” 

Knowing how Cato operates, that he probably wouldn’t come back here anyway, I tease Katniss a little.  “What do I care?”  I pull her hand off her mouth.  “I’ve got you to protect me now.” 

She does maintain the level of seriousness.  “Come on.”  She is right.  It is time to move on.  Time to hunt, gather, whatever. 

We pack our things, and move out.  I have a knife.  It was Katniss’, but she gave it to me.  I think she felt bad she had weapons and I didn’t.  She knows I am good at wrestling so, maybe I would be of that use.  It is probably very helpful in any situation, including a fight.  I verbalize my thoughts as we walk out into the wilderness, from the cave.  “He’ll be hunting us by now.  Cato isn’t one to wait for his prey to wander by.”

“If he’s wounded-“

“It doesn’t matter. If he can move, he’s coming.”  We wander for a moment, looking about, making sure we aren’t being followed. 

“If we want food, we better head up to my old hunting grounds.”

“Your call,” I say to her.  “Just tell me what you need me to do.”  We prepare to go our separate ways, when she interrupts my concentration.  I think I sense something, but it is definitely not Cato.  Cato is obvious, this is a subtle disturbance. 

“Keep an eye out.  Stay on the rocks as much as possible.  No sense in leaving him tracks to follow.  And listen for both of us.”  She breaks my concentration, but still, I feel something different.  It can’t be Cato.  He doesn’t stalk anything.

My legs begin to nearly fail me in a brief moment of weakness.  I just haven’t used them much since the cave, and my leg is still sliced up.  I must be making all kinds of noise.  I know that someone is near, and I almost want to keep up the noise to attract her.  I know where she is.  I sense that if she knew I knew, she would have ran off a while ago.  Foxface.  She is near.  She is following.  Not to kill us, but to steal off of us.  She doesn’t kill.  That is not in her nature.  I am not really limping this bad, but I drag my leg, causing all kinds of noise.  Katniss must be really frustrated, but I can’t tell her why. I can’t even whisper why because Foxface will sense something is up.  She just has to understand that everything I do has a distinct purpose.

We get to the spot where I laid down to die some days ago.  Must have been a short while ago, but every minute with Katniss drowns out my sense of time.  Katniss halts abruptly, looking at me with frustration.  “What?”  I ask. 

“You’ve got to move more quietly.  Forget about Cato, you’re chasing off every rabbit in a ten mile radius.” 

“Really?”  I say obliviously.  I try to make it seem realistic, but my abilities may fail me when it comes to Foxface.  I know she is smart.  Probably smarter than I.  “Sorry, I didn’t know.” 

“Can you take your boots off?”  She asks me. 

“Here?”  I question.  It seems dangerous.  But maybe I should anyway.

“Yes.  I will too.  That way we’ll both be quieter.”  I comply, and we both take off our boots.  I follow her, trying to make the same rugged sound for a while, hoping Foxface is still on our trail.  If only Katniss will send me off somewhere.  We walk for about an hour.  I only think about how I will kill Foxface.  I know I have a knife, but she is fast, at least I think she is.  She may not be one for direct confrontation, but I feel that she isn’t the kind of tribute to go down without a fight either.  She is stealthy to say the least.  I will have to grab her.  Strangle her, stab her.  Do something!  Maybe there is poison around.  Maybe I could find some poison berries somewhere. 

“Katniss,” I finally say.  “We need to split up.  I know I’m chasing away the game.”

“Only because your leg’s hurt,” she argues.  She is frustrated.  Her tone doesn’t lie.

“I know.  So, why don’t you go on?  Show me some plants to gather and that way we’ll both be useful.”  She gives me a look of suspicion, questioning my motives.  I know it’s dangerous.  I know what I’m doing.  I know how to fight Cato should he be near. 

“Not if Cato comes and kills you.” 

Out of nervousness for our situation, I laugh awkwardly, seeing a red head off in the distance out of the corner of my eye.  She’s still on our trail.  She will follow me.  I’m carrying the food.  I’m the injured one without the bow and arrows to shoot her with.  I am the dumb Baker’s son.

“Look, I can handle Cato.  I fought hum before, didn’t I?” 

“What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted?”  The way she said that was like she was giving a meaningless task to a child who wanted to feel important. 

I grit my teeth, trying to communicate to her that I have to go.  We have to separate.  Foxface is near, and we can use her conniving ways against her!  “What if you show me what’s edible around here,” I say through my teeth, “and go get us some meat?”  She has to get that.  She has to. 

She tilts her head as if she understands my urgency.  Maybe she thinks I am about to have a bowel movement or something.  “Just don’t go far,” she finally says.  “In case you need help.  Whistle, like this,” she whistles and I repeat it a couple times.  “That means you’re in trouble, okay?”  I nod, and she heads off. 

Finally, I am alone with Foxface.  A sigh of relief.  The battle of wits, as they would call it in one of the bedtime stories the Baker used to tell me when I was a child.  He once told me about the treachery of, I think Jacob was his name.  How he stole his brother’s birthright by dressing as he did and talking as he did.  Whatever, it was a while ago.  I don’t remember too well.

I head off, silently, but then I realize, I need to limp like I did before to make Foxface think that she is not noticed. 

First thing is first, I take a position a bit farther away from where I think Katniss is hunting.  Don’t want to scare her away.  I set my food down, and begin gathering useless things.  My eye shifts to a small stream, and a patch of berries.  Funny, I have never seen these before.  I remember the berries Katniss gave me, but these are slightly different. They look almost black, but somehow different.  They are probably poisonous.  I remember the Baker warning me about eating strange berries unless I checked with him first.  If I place them next to my food, I think, Foxface will think they’re safe.  Surely she’ll eat them.  She may consider them, but not if I’m casual enough.  No!  Peeta, if you “play it off,” she will know it’s a trick!  As far as you know, these are the same berries.  Just put it next to the cheese, and walk away.  Maybe, pretend to be eating them yourself when you get back to the food.  Got it. 

That’s exactly what I do.  I pretend to be nibbling on a berry by the time I got back to the food.  Untouched.  I place six near the cheese, making sure they don’t touch any actual food.  I pretend to pop a few more in my mouth, using sleight of hand, and walk off in the distance.  I hear the footsteps of Foxface near the food, and then Katniss’.  Out of the corner of my eye, Foxface has a small bit of cheese and something else.  Did she buy it?  Did she? 

“Peeta!”  Katniss yells.  “Peeta!”  She sounds frightened.  I run for the voice of Katniss, looking briefly at the pile, and see only five berries remaining.  I run through a bush, and she lowers her bow immediately as soon as she sees me.  “What are you doing?” She scolds.  “You’re supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!” 

“I found some berries down by the stream,” I hold out my hand, thinking Foxface may be listening close by. 

“I whistled.  Why didn’t you whistle back?”  My offense is justified, I think. 

“I didn’t hear,” I say casually.  “The water’s too loud, I guess.”  Playing dumb will trick Katniss. 

“I thought Cato killed you!”  She yells in a way that would attract him.  Clearly she is just mad.  If Cato killed me, she would hear a cannon.

“No, I’m fine.”  I put my arm around Katniss, “Katniss?”  I ask. 

She pushes my arm off her, furious at me.  “If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range.  Because if one of them doesn’t answer, they’re in trouble, all right?” 

“All right!”  I snap back at her. 

“All right.  Because that’s what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!”  She is clearly mad about my mistake, and I understand.  I do regret it in a way, but I know that these are the Games.  Sometimes what is best for the both of us is not intuitive. 

She paces the spot I set the food down with the rolls and apples and cheese, oh and the berries.  “And you ate without me!” 

“What?  No, I didn’t!”  I snap back defensively. 

“Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese?” 

“I don’t know what ate the cheese,” I lie.  Katniss doesn’t know.  “But it wasn’t me.  I’ve been down by the stream collecting berries.”  I hold out my hand, showing them to her.  “Would you care for some?”  I grin slightly, communicating that I know what they are.  Katniss is still oblivious.

The cannon fires, and a smile creeps across my face.  I know what happened. 

Katniss shifts her gaze from here to there, to me in shock, expecting me to drop dead, I guess.  I know it’s Foxface.  I bested her.  But did I?  Suddenly I think I hear something.  Maybe it was my fear talking or something, I don’t know.  I could have sworn I heard Cato yell.  I grab Katniss by the arm, pushing her.  “Climb,” I say.  “He’ll be here in a second.  We’ll stand a better chance fighting him from above.” 

“No, Peeta,” she says to me.  “She’s your kill, not Cato’s.” 

“What?”  I lie.  “I haven’t even seen her since the first day.  How could I have killed her?” 

The hovercraft takes her body away in a split second, and I confirm my victory.  Nothing could be sweeter, I think.  This is the kind of thing the Baker warned me about. 

“I wonder how she found us.  My fault, I guess, if I’m as loud as you say.”  I wink to Katniss, but I don’t think she understands. 

“And she is very clever, Peeta.  Well, she was.  Until you outfoxed her.”  I can tell she doesn’t understand.  I might as well not.  No point in being proud, I guess. 

“Not on purpose.  Doesn’t seem fair somehow.  I mean, we would have both been dead, too, if she hadn’t eaten the berries first.”  This then initiates Katniss’ explanation of what she calls nightlock.  It is a particularly poisonous berry her father pointed out to her when she was a child.  I don’t remember ever seeing it before, but I remember the rule the Baker had regarding berries.  If I didn’t know, guess it’s poisonous. 

“Let’s make a fire.  Right now.”  Her suggestion is understandable.  Her hunting skills have paid off, so we have meat.  We just need to cook. 

“Are you ready to face him?”  The question I direct to her is serious and necessary.  He is our remaining challenge.  Cato is our last obstacle.  My remaining nemesis. 

“I’m ready to eat,” she counters.  I can tell this is something Katniss doesn’t want to go in to this soon after Foxface.  She is afraid. I build a small fire, we cook the food and eat what Katniss shot. 

I can tell she is afraid the whole time we eat, and the rest of that afternoon.  I even suggest we go back to the cave, thinking it would be a good place to draw in Cato.  Knowing her ability with the bow, I think Katniss could easily kill him, straight shot.  Her idea for our protection is climbing in a tree.  I know this is what she is used to, but I can’t see how that will work for me.  My legs can’t climb.  I know that already.

She stands on her toes, kisses me, “Sure,” she says.  “Let’s go back to the cave.” 

Her kisses are so sweet and addictive.  I could live off of them.  “Well, that was easy,” I wink at her.  We walk a few paces, hand in hand.  She had the idea to put some material that will smoke when burned on the fire, to encourage Cato to survey the scene first. 

Nothing notable happens at all during our trek back to the cave.  I can tell that the sun is setting quicker than normal, but not too quickly. 

Up in the sky, Foxface shines the way Thresh did just last night.  This is all happening too soon.  This is all happening too fast.  This is almost over. 

Back at the cave, Katniss takes the first watch, insisting I sleep.  I wake up the next morning.  She didn’t wake me.  Katniss sits at the mouth of the cave, watching.  “I slept the whole night,” I say as I step over to where she sits.  “That’s not fair, Katniss, you should have woken me.” 

“I’ll sleep now,” she says, clearly exhausted.  “Wake me if anything interesting happens.” 

She lays down to sleep, and by late afternoon, Katniss is up.  She doesn’t need as much sleep as I.  I don’t know why.  The day passes rather quickly too.  The Gamemakers want this thing over.  They want it to end.  “Any sign of our friend?”  She asks through a yawn. 

“No,” I say as I glance from here to there, trying to anticipate what he would be doing based on my experiencing working with him.  “He’s keeping a disturbingly low profile.” 

“How long do you think we’ll have before the Gamemakers drive us together?” 

“Well, Foxface died almost a day ago, so there’s been plenty of time for the audience to place bets and get bored.  I guess it could happen at any moment.”  I reply.

“Yeah, I have a feeling today’s the day.  I wonder how they’ll do it.” 

 


	27. Chapter 27

The stream outside the cave is dry.  Bone dry.  “Not even a little damp.  They must have drained it while we slept.”  Katniss kneels in the empty riverbed, feeling the chapped ground with her palm.  Just days ago the sky couldn’t clear, and now the ground is bone dry. 

“The lake,” I state.  “That’s where they want us to go.” 

“Maybe the ponds still have some,” she says hopefully.  I doubt it.

“We can check,” I suggest, but I doubt we will find anything.  After checking the ponds, finding what I suspected, nothing, we decide to finish eating what food is left in our bags and head for the lake.  There is nothing left.  This needs to end tonight.  This needs to be finished.  “Two against one.  Should be a piece of cake.” 

“Next time we eat,” she says, “it will be in the Capitol.” 

“You bet it will.” 

We near the tree that reminded me of the poem I heard as a child.  The tree where Katniss was trapped by the Careers.  I remember it all too well.  Are you, are you, coming to the tree?

“Let’s move on,” she says before I could get through the stanza in my head.  I don’t want to sing it out loud.  The less noise we can make, the better. 

We near the big lake, and sure enough, there is water her, but where’s Cato?

“We don’t want to fight him after dark.  There’s only one pair of glasses.”  She alludes to the fact that the sun is nearly set.  This is what Cato wants.  The glasses she has lets her see in the dark.  I saw Cato and Clove with them.  I don’t like the idea of them.  Seeing in the dark is a danger to us. 

“Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for,” I suggest, knowing that to full well be the case.  “What do you want to do?  Go back to the cave?”  I know we shouldn’t because of the water, but maybe it would be an unexpected move on our part.  It would throw Cato off.

“Either that or find a tree.”  I know that is out of the question for me at least.  “But let’s give him another half an hour or so.  Then we’ll take cover.” 

We sit by the lake in full sight, just waiting for the time to pass, for Cato to come for us.  To kill Cato.  Katniss does something unexpected.  Last I heard her sing was when I was five, which is true.  I remember what the Baker told me about her father.  She could sing like an angel. 

Katniss opens her mouth, and sings this four note melody, over and over.  I never heard it before, but it is the most beautiful thing I have heard.  My heart left my body in that moment, after the mockingjays replay the tune over and over. 

“Just like your father,” I say to her.  I can’t help but smile.  It is true.  The birds sing when she sings. 

Katniss points to the mockingjay pin on her jacket, “That’s Rue’s song.  I think they remember it.” 

For about a half an hour, the mockingjays sing Rue’s song freely, completely and brilliantly meshing the notes together, overlapping the reply of so simple a tune. 

The music suddenly stops, and both I and Katniss hop to our feet watching the bushes in front of us rustle.  It is Cato.  It has to be.  That is the only thing that makes sense.  I draw my knife, and Katniss already has an arrow pointed at him just as he makes in through the bushed. 

Full sprint, Cato approaches us, and I am prepared to do to him what Thresh did to me on day one.  I know how to handle him.  I fought him before.  Use his body weight against him.

Katniss lets an arrow fly at his chest, only it doesn’t stick.  It bounces right of like, “He’s got some kind of body armor!”  Katniss finishes my thought for me. 

Cato sprints nearer and nearer but doesn’t slow.  In fact, he runs right past us, and I figure out why before Katniss.  Mutations.  Genetically mutated beasts created by the Capitol appear.  Two, four six, eight of them.  No, there are more.  Katniss takes off ahead of me, then inexplicably turns back.  “Go, Katniss!  Go!”  I scream to her.  She doesn’t want to leave my side, but I insist.  This is the only way she will not be caught by them too. 

The mutations catch up closer and closer to me as we sprint for the Cornucopia, I am dragging behind.  They are like dogs, but have the intelligence of people.  I don’t know how to explain it, until I see one of them literally point with their paw, turn a growl into a word: Go! 

I reach the tail end of the Cornucopia, barely able to climb onto the thing without Katniss’ help.  Cato and she are already on top, dealing with the mutts.  There have to be at least twenty of them now.  This is how it all ends. 

Cato screams something at us, I understand him, but barely.  “What?”  She asks him. 

“He said, ‘Can they climb it?’”  None of us knows for sure, but it sure seems like they can’t. 

I get a closer look at the mutts, and I recognize them.  I literally recognize the mutts.  They are the tributes!  “Katniss?” 

“It’s her!”  She yells.  She has only fired a few arrows.  One at Cato, and another in the throat of a mutt.  This is sick.  Is this what they did with the bodies?  This is what the Capitol does?  This is entertainment?  Their corruption of youth, their way with the tributes is now complete.  They have taken their bodies, morphing them into horrifying mutations.

“Who?”  I ask who she is talking about.  “What is it, Katniss?” 

“It’s them.  It’s all of them.  The others.  Rue, and Foxface and… and all the other tributes.”  I recognize Marvel, and one of the other Careers that didn’t play vital roles in our pack.  How did they do this?  How is this humane? 

“What did they do to them?”  I ask.  “You don’t think… those could be their real eyes?”  This is horrible.  This is the thing nightmares are made from. 

All this while, I forget about Cato.  I forget about the one who really wants us dead.  The one who will win if we remain distracted. 

“Ah!”  I scream out loud.  The mutt has my leg, it has my leg!  I feel its teeth sink into my calf, and pull me from the Cornucopia.  My instinct tells me to gram the nearest object, so I grab Katniss’ leg, holding on for dear life.

“Kill it, Peeta!  Kill it!”  She screams at me.  I draw the knife, and stab down again and down again.  Poking holes in the head of the mutt over and over again.  This one was the tribute from Six.  It takes about twelve solid stabs to the face, eyes, nose, and mouth for it to fall nearly dead at the base of the Cornucopia. 

Katniss pulls me back up on the Cornucopia, and everything leaves me all at once.  I can’t see, I can barely hear or feel with my skin.  Just the fact that I am thinking and still conscious is a miracle.  My left leg.  My poor left leg, first slashed open by Cato, and now nearly bit off by the mutts. 

I lay down on the Cornucopia waiting for something, anything.  Only Cato takes me by the neck, putting me in a choke hold, refusing to let go or allow me to breathe.  I can’t hear what he is saying, but he is talking to Katniss.  He is saying something, but I can’t hear.  He was right.  I would watch the end.  He is now making sure of that. 

Reaching down to my leg, I dip my fingers in the blood.  Pulling my hand up, I paint a faint “X” with blood on Cato’s hand that is around my neck.  Katniss’ eyes widen, acknowledging this.  

She lets an arrow fly, and Cato lets go.  I shoot my head back, smacking Cato in the nose, and he falls.  Just as I think I am going too, Katniss grabs a hold of my hand.  Is it over?  Is this it?  What now?

The horrible sounds of him screaming followed by the whipping and gnashing of teeth from the mutts rings in my ears.  I am so tire.  I am so sleepy.  My blood is all over the Cornucopia.  How will I not bleed out?  I am so tired.  My feet slip on the slick surface.  My life falls from my leg.  Dripping, flowing like a fountain.  Cato was right.  He was right.  My betrayal will be my undoing. 

Katniss takes her last arrow, she shot all of the others, and makes a tourniquet for my leg, tying it just under my left knee to stop the bleeding.  I want to sleep.  “Don’t go to sleep,” she says to me over and over.  I could die.  This could be it for me.  This could be my last moment with the girl with the braids. 

“Are you cold?”  I ask her.  She is shaking like a leaf.  I unzip my jacket, inviting her in to the warmth.  She complies willingly, snuggling close. 

“Cato may win this thing yet.”  She has a point.  By the sound of the fight, Cato seems to be winning against most of the mutts.  I have heard more death cried from them than from Cato.  He is a fighter, and he hates us.  He hates Katniss for beating him, and he hates me for betraying him.  I can only imagine what will come of us if he kills the mutts. 

“Don’t you believe it,” I say as I pull her closer in my arms. 

Few hours pass.  “Why don’t they just kill him?”  She asks. 

“You know why.”  The mutts are losing, that’s why. 

I nod off, trying to sleep, but Katniss shakes me awake.  The sound of their battle only grows louder, and there is no cannon fire.  Nothing.  Cato isn’t dead.  “I think he’s closer now.  Katniss, can you shoot him?” 

“My last arrow’s in your tourniquet.”  I unzip the jacket, releasing Katniss. 

“Make it count.”  Katniss takes the arrow from my bandage, and ties it as tight as she can without it.  She crawls to the edge of the Cornucopia, leans over.  I hold her legs so she doesn’t fall over.  Up she leans back without an arrow.  “Did you get him?”  Within second, I hear the cannon fire.  “Then we won, Katniss.” 

Cato’s dead.  We did it.  We won.  This time, mission truly accomplished.  Katniss is alive.  She survived.  “Hurray for us,” only I do not hear happiness in her voice.  Death.  That is why we won.  We won because we killed, that’s why.  Our trickery, our murders, our animal nature has rewarded us.  That is the Hunger Games.

The mutts disappear in the ground.  That is what the Gamemakers do, I guess. They have mutts that materialize and dematerialize on command, I guess. 

We wait for a few minutes, crawl off the Cornucopia, and wait for the Victory Trumpets.  Nothing happens.  No trumpets.  “Hey!”  Katniss screams.  “What’s going on?” 

“Maybe it’s the body,” I say.  “Maybe we have to move away from it.”  We do.  Walking is nearly impossible for me.  Step by step, farther and farther we get, still no trumpets.  Katniss displays concern, as do I.  How gullible we may really be to think that the Capitol would allow for two Victors from the Hunger Games. 

My leg is for real useless.  There is nothing I can do with it.  The pain is worse than what I felt when Cato injured me.  It is worse than any mortal wound.  Disability is my pain.

“Okay.  Think you could make it to the lake?”  She asks me. 

“Think I better try.”  We walk a few more paces.  “What are they waiting for?” 

“I don’t know,” she says, helping me with every step. 

I sense treachery.  I sense danger.  “Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.”  The voice of Claudius Templesmith only communicates trouble.  “The earlier revision has been revoked.  Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed.  Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.” 

Katniss picks up the arrow she tried to shoot Cato with when we saw him storm from the bushes.  I can tell she is thinking for herself.  I know it is only fair.  Only makes sense.  This was the most interesting Hunger Games since the last Quarter Quell, I’m imagining: A Hunger Games with a year divisible by twenty five.  This had to have been the greatest show on earth, and we played it brilliantly.  Only we didn’t know we were playing.  We didn’t know this was a trick.  Standing to my feet, after having previously lost my balance, I walk slowly towards Katniss.  My bum leg is only slowing me down.  I present my knife, and she draws her weapon, pointing it at me.  Turning around to the lake, I chuck the knife in the water, knowing that that would be the only tool I would ever need.  The only material object of use to me in my life.  I would gladly give it up for her.  For the girl with the braids. 

Katniss lowers the bow.  “No,” I object.  “Do it,” I say louder. 

Her voice cracks with disappointment.  “I can’t, I won’t.” 

“Do it.  Before they send those mutts back or something.  I don’t want to die like Cato.”  She could hit a squirrel through the eye ever time.  Make it quick, Katniss.  Make it quick.  It is a mercy at this point, Katniss.  It is generous to do such a thing.

“Then you shoot me!”  Her emotions take over as she shoves the bow and arrow in my hands.  “You shoot me and go home and live with it!”  I think she is making a point. 

How could I expect her to do such a horrible thing to someone I love, and live with myself for the rest of my life.  Is that what Haymitch did?  Was the name he screamed on the train, in the bathroom the one he killed who he regretted?  Can I ask her to do that?  Can I ask her to take on that responsibility?  “You know I can’t,” I say.  Knowing Katniss can’t kill me, I will just have to do it myself.  “Fine, I’ll go first anyway.” 

I rip the bandage off my leg, letting the blood flow.  This will surely kill me. 

Katniss fumbles to fix the bandage, to stop the bleeding, only she can’t.  She knows she can’t and that is the way it is supposed to be.  That is how the Seventy-Fourth Games will end. 

“No, you can’t kill yourself,”

“Katniss,” I say.  “It’s what I want.”  Her grey eyes are flooded with tears.  She cares for me, I know.  She really does, but she cannot save me.  I realize that now.  That is out of her power.  That is not within her cable tow. 

“You’re not leaving me here alone,” is all Katniss can say. 

I take her hands in mine, pulling her to my level.  “Listen, we both know they have to have a Victor.  It can only be one of us.  Please, take it.  For me.”  It was all I wanted since my name was called.  It was all I wanted, knowing full well I would never make it out of the arena.  Now, that truth is realized.  That is the case.  I will die as Peeta Mellark.  I will die with a smile on my face.

Katniss fumbles in her pocket.  She pulls out some berries, the berries, the nightlock.  The berries. 

“No, I won’t let you.”  I close her hand with both of mine.  She looks up at me with a smile on her face as if she knew exactly what she was doing.  She does.  She knows precisely what she is doing.  She is preforming the bluff that will save our lives. 

“Trust me,” she whispers.  She drops an equal amount of the nightlock berries in my hand, and we hold each other’s gaze for some time.  “On the count of three?” 

I nod in agreement.  This is how we will go.  Either both of us or none of us.  “Hold them out.  I want everyone to see.”  I say.  We do, knowing full well how this may look to the whole nation of Panem.  This is treason.  This is a challenge.  This is an uprising.  This is phase three.  The Districts in alliance, but one so weak even the smallest bit of betrayal, or even a hint thereof, could send the whole system crashing down.

I know exactly how this looks to the Gamemakers, to President Snow, to them all.  This bluff, thinking about it, could save us, or, like the alliances in the Games, it could make the nation crumble.  If two children from District Twelve can stand up to the authority of the Capitol like this, who can’t?  This is phase three Cato told me about.  This is the act of betrayal that will send the tributes, no, the Districts against the Capitol. 

We raise our hands to our mouth, “One,” this is it.  “Two,” I can see it now, rioting in the streets, the Gamemakers wondering if it is worth killing their Victor for the safety of their power and status, “three,” too late.  The berries are in my mouth.  Looking at her, they are in Katniss’ mouth. 

“Stop!”  The voice yells overhead, “Stop!  Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the Victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!  I give you- the tributes of District Twelve!” 

We couldn’t spit those berries out faster. 


	28. Chapter 28

So this is the story of how I almost died.  By the time the hover craft came to pick us up, I was hazy.  Maybe from the nightlock, I don’t know.  Probably from ripping the bandage off my leg.  There were doctors on board, prepared to do surgery on my leg anyway.  Katniss refused to leave my side, so much so, they had to set up a barrier between me and her.  I could see her, right before I went under, banging on the transparent barrier between us.  Then darkness. 

“Peeta?”  I hear before I can see.  I open my eyes, and close them immediately.  The bright hospital lights blind me.  “Peeta, can you hear me?”  I turn my head to the left, and see my friend, Portia.  Her blonde hair is almost as bright as the lights in the room.  Everything is strange, almost fake.  Like I am in a dream or something.  Maybe I actually died, and this is it.  This is the life afterwards.  I couldn’t spit the berries out fast enough maybe.  “Hello, Peeta.  How are you feeling?”  Her voice is the friendliest and most welcoming sound I could hear.  She stands over me, protectively.  Observing me, making sure I am fine.

“Hello,” is all I can say.  I pull my arms over my chest.  I am bare completely.  I try to sit up, but Portia’s gentle, motherly hands push me back down. 

“You lost a lot of blood, but you’re well now.  At least you will be.” 

“What happened?”  I ask.  I sit up slowly, and only with her permission. 

“Peeta, they couldn’t salvage your leg from the knee down.”  Her eyes flutter, and I see genuine concern in them. 

“So you’re saying, I don’t have a leg?”  I look down, and see a perfectly similar metal replacement. 

“I am saying you do, but it will take some time getting used to, Peeta.”  The metal is shaped like the muscles and bones in my organic right leg.  Only it is foreign, and does strange things.  I can’t wiggle my toes all that well.  It takes effort to move it. 

“Why can’t I move it?”  I ask her. 

“You need time to adjust.  The surgeons did all they could to save you, Peeta.  They needed to…” she pauses mid-sentence.  “Keep you strong during your procedure.” 

“What did they do?”  I stand to my feet from the comfortable bed, take a step with Portia’s help.  I nearly fall from the disorienting contraption.

“Well, to make you look bigger, and well fed for the post Games interview, they introduced anabolic steroids into your system.”  She walks me in front of a mirror, and I look at my nearly naked self.  I am only wearing underwear.  I don’t recognize the man in the glass.  He is different; bulkier, older, seasoned, like an athlete, or more specifically, a career.  MY hair is trimmed a bit, still wet from a bath or something.  My hands are stronger, arms thicker.

“I am huge!”  I say.  My chest sticks out, my arms are tones, and my shoulders and back are broader than I last remember.  I bet I could carry five bags of flour at once like this.  Even my legs are muscular.  My robotic leg doesn’t do what I wish half the time, and I need the aid of a can to walk.  But for some reason, the surgeons considered cosmetics before utility.  It looks exactly like my old leg down to the detail of what should be veins in the metal surface.  The only thing missing is the skin color paint they could have polished it with.

“It does take a while to get used to,” she says.  “Your physique was my idea.  I think I know what Katniss will like,” she winks at me in the mirror.  All I can do is stare at the specimen I have become.  All artificial.  All fake.

I dress in a suit kind of like the one for the interview, but different.  Portia gives me an ascot instead of a tie so I don’t choke.  She is worried that my throat could close or something; a reaction to the anabolic steroids or something.  I don’t know. 

It’s a black suit, no stripes, no nothing.  I wear a white shirt, and red ascot, just like the red plaid of Katniss’ dress I saw her wear as a child.  Same color same everything. 

Neither Portia Cinna nor Haymitch will let us see each other before the presentation at the Capitol.  The ceremonial review of the Games where they condense two weeks in three hours.  It is a horrible program, just like the Games, but it is mandatory that we watch it. 

I see Haymitch in passing in this room.  I don’t even know where I am.  It is bright and white.  I dress, and try to practice walking.  “Haymitch,” I call to him.  He holds out a finger, signaling me not to come, or I need to wait a moment.  He is talking to Portia, and Cinna.  I have no idea what about.  I only know that they all look very concerned.  What about?  Katniss?  Is she okay?  What happened?

I don’t know.  They hasten me to the backstage of the studio this event will be broadcasted from.  The audience is full with ridiculous Capitol citizens and their strange over the top styles.  There must be a thousand people there.  I stand just offstage, waiting to be given the signal from a crew member to walk onstage.  I can see Katniss on the other side.  She is absolutely breathtaking.  Her dress flickers and glistens in the light.  She is wearing high heels that make her look taller.  The dress is shorter than I expected.  Maybe Cinna wanted her to appear innocent, but of what?  She is padded, I can tell.  The Arena took a toll on her that I can visibly see.  Her stare is blanker, her poise is weaker.  She is different.

“Peeta,” Portia interrupts my thoughts just as the prep team is being introduced on stage.  “Give me a hug,” I lean in as Portia squeezes her arms around me.  She whispers something in my ears.  “There is something you need to know, Peeta.”  She pauses a moment, hesitating to tell me. 

“What?”  I ask in a hushed tone.  “What is it?”  She doesn’t say anything.  She is silent, still holding me in her arms. 

“Peeta… uh… just… be yourself.  Okay?”  The hug breaks, and I release her from my embrace.  “Here,” she hands me a metallic cane.  “It will help you with walking for the near future until you get used to how it behaves.” 

“Thank you,” is all I can say as she and Cinna are introduced. 

Finally they introduce us, Katniss and me.  The backstage crew waves at me to go, and I take my sturdy steps on stage, and the crowd goes wild.  Absolutely insane.  I wave at them, but my eyes are on that girl, the girl with the braids.  Katniss. 

It only takes her about three steps to slam into me, holding me tighter than ever.  The last I saw her was with the berries.  The last I saw her was when we thought we would die.  I kiss her softly, over and over again.  Caesar Flickerman does his usual thing.  He and I get each other’s stage presence.  I push him aside as he tries to break this moment.  Katniss and I are still kissing each other softly as I physically push him aside.  Katniss chuckles audibly, and Haymitch leads us to the plush red velvet couch. 

Katniss takes off her shoes, scoots next to me, I throw my arm around her, and we sit through the grotesque three hour highlight of the past Hunger Games.

The things I notice most are her reactions to the small things.  I see the various gifts from the sponsors she received, her reaction to seeing me with the Careers.  I see it all from her perspective now.  I smile at her outburst after Claudius’ first announcement, telling us about the rule change.  “Peeta!”  She yells audibly, then covering her mouth to hide her excitement.  Katniss cuddles closer during that moment. 

Everything that follows is just a distraction.  The crowning party by President Snow, the after party in the Capitol, the various parties everywhere that seem to last the night.  Katniss has changed though.  I can’t exactly explain what, but she seems different now that we are out of the arena.  Though all these things were great spectacles, which is it.  They are spectacles and distractions to keep the people focused on what those in power want. 

Panem’s focus is the Hunger Games.  We are now Victors.  This means that every year, we will be made spectacles just like Haymitch.  Now that I am on the other side, I am thinking that it could be possible that Haymitch doesn’t just drink because of what happened inside of the arena, but outside as well.  Maybe his annual exploitation drives him to his alcoholism.  I don’t know. 

The next day are the post Games interview.  Effie calls us in for another “big, big, big day!”  I roll out of bed and throw on something Portia set aside for me.  I shower quickly, and skip breakfast.  I don’t need to eat anything.  I am still on the diet I was on in the arena.  The interview takes place right down the hall.  I pull Katniss aside, and she seems confused.  She is blank.  She is a body that eats breathes and walks.  She hasn’t spoken to me since the Games.  She doesn’t acknowledge other people or anything.  She is traumatized.  “I hardly get to see you.  Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart.” 

“Yes,” she says awkwardly as if something were wrong.  “He’s gotten very responsible lately.” 

I don’t know why she is uncomfortable, but she clearly is.  Katniss is changed, I know it.  “Well, there’s just this and we go home.  Then he can’t watch us all the time.” 

The interview that followed was a combination of awkward, forced, and a little of something else I haven’t heard from Katniss before.  I don’t know, but it breezes by in a minute.   Caesar talks about the whole “love at first sight” thing, followed by me further explaining the first time I saw Katniss, and her first realization she loved me, but I don’t understand.  Something in her is changed.  Different.  Right up until we talk about my leg, I am just speaking without thinking.  Haymitch is watching, wide eyed, and intent. 

“So, Peeta,” Caesar begins.  “How’s your new leg?” 

“New leg?”  Katniss asks, feeling my left leg with her hands.  I pull up the bottom of my trouser sleeve, and reveal the shiny metal ankle. “Oh, no.”  Katniss whispers. 

“No one told you?”  Caesar asks in disbelief. 

“I haven’t had the chance,” I defend. 

“It’s my fault,” Katniss interrupts.  “Because I used that tourniquet.” 

“Yes, it’s your fault I’m alive,” I snap back.  It is a combination of my confusion, frustration, and overall anger at Katniss.  What is different now?  Why is she avoiding me?  What changed? 

“He’s right,” Caesar offers.  “He’d have bled to death for sure without it.”  Caesar’s questions that follow are concerned with the very last moment in the Games.  “Katniss, I know you’ve had a shock, but I’ve got to ask.  What was going on in your mind… hm?” 

I look to Katniss as does the entire room which is Cinna, Portia, Haymitch, all appear to be biting their nails at what she could say.  They stand almost uniformly.  You could cut the tension with a knife.

“I don’t know, I just…”  She looks at me, and I see Katniss.  I see everything about her in her grey eyes.  “Couldn’t bear the thought of… being without him.”  I hold her close, and Katniss inches in under my arm, holding me.  Maybe some things haven’t changed.

“Peeta?  Anything to add?”  Casesar asks.  I kiss Katniss’ forehead. 

“No.  I think that goes for both of us.” 

After we pack our things, we head to the train station to return home.  I know that soon I will see the Baker again, I will see everyone.  Katniss avoids me the whole way to the train station.  On board, she is silent.  Nothing.  Not even a word.  Haymitch sits at the bar, drinking and drinking as he always does.  I sit next to him, observing Katniss from my stool.  Haymitch is surprised I am here with him.  He doesn’t say anything.  I order a drink, we clink glasses, and drink.  He laughs out loud when I cough a little from the potency of the alcohol.  When his hand slaps the table of the bar, Katniss looks up, frightened.  I wink at her, but she doesn’t even smile.  Nothing.

We all brace for a sudden stop, and find out via the overhead speaker that the train needs to stop to refuel.  We are allowed some time to walk outside. 

“Katniss?”  I walk to where she is sitting.  She appears to be deep in thought about something that is clearly troubling her.  I have no idea what.  Maybe if we leave the train, we would talk about it. 

We walk hand in hand for a while, stopping at the end of the last train car.  I step aside to pick her some beautiful wild flowers which I am very fond of.  I sneak a dandelion or two in the mix.

I hand them to her.  Katniss appears shocked then pleased, smiling at me warmly.  “What’s wrong?”  I ask her, brushing some hair behind her ear. 

“Nothing,” is all she says.  She just smells the wildflowers, and stands there.  I wait for something more.  I don’t get it. 

Haymitch passes by, startling the both of us.  He places a hand on Katniss shoulder.  He is audibly drunk.  “Great job you two, just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone.  We should be okay,” he says.  Keep what up?  What?  What is he talking about?   Keep it up until the cameras are away?  What, are we acting?  He is gone before my confusion forces me to speak.

“What’s he mean?”  I ask Katniss, demanding an explanation.  She is nervous, and I begin to sense that this is what she was in such deep thought about.  This is my nightmare. 

“It’s the Capitol,” she says.  “They didn’t like our stunt with the berries.” 

“What?  What are you talking about?”  I don’t care that I am almost yelling.  No one will hear us out here. 

“It seemed too rebellious.  So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days.”  She pauses briefly.  “So I didn’t make it worse.”  He hand with the flowers falls to her side.  Initiate phase three.

“Coaching you?  But not me?”  I ask. 

“He knew you were smart enough to get it right,” she admits. 

“I didn’t know there was anything to get right.”  My nightmare has come true.  The girl that I suggested shouldn’t play cards played me like a violin.  “So what you’re saying is, these last few days and then I guess…” my stomach begins to churn.  “Back in the arena…” tears fill my eyes.  “That was just some strategy you two worked out.”  My throat can’t keep my voice still.  Tears fill my eyes. 

“No,” she snaps.  “I mean, I couldn’t even talk to him in the arena, could I?” 

“But you knew what he wanted you to do,” I pause, then yell, “Didn’t you?”  My hand squeezes hers.  “Katniss,” I have to drop it, feeling the betrayal.  She used me.  She lied to me.  “It was all for the Games.  How you acted.”  The tears run down my cheeks.  Cato’s curse is fulfilled.  Like I betrayed him, like I exploited his trust, she betrayed me, and I had no idea.

“Not all of it,” she insists.  I hear guilt in her voice. 

“Then how much?  No, forget that.  I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?” 

She shrugs.  “I don’t know.  The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get.” 

I don’t know what to say.  I just stand there a brief moment, understand that there is nothing left to do or say. 

“Well,” I rub the tears off my face, “let me know when you work it out.” 

She tricked me.  She betrayed my trust.  Just like Cato said, as I betrayed him, as I lied to him, I would be lied to.  He was right.  I wouldn’t know it.  I wouldn’t see it coming.  I didn’t.  Now, the most beautiful memory I had from my childhood, seeing her in the plaid dress, has become the worst, most painful recollection possible.


	29. Chapter 29

“Haymitch, what are you doing here?”  I welcome him in my new home.  I haven’t seen him in about a month.  I don’t know what the unexpected visit is for.  “Sit down, please,” I say to him.  He eyes my mansion suspiciously, like ‘oh, this is what a home is supposed to look like.’  His identical mansion across the street is trashed.  I wake up the same time every night to his screams from nightmares. 

We pass to the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen.  He has a bag in his hand.  Haymitch turns to my living room, staring at the countless canvases I have painted on.  All pictures of horror, all pictures of the fright I have felt in the arena.  All display my pain.  Canvases upon canvases, covering the furniture, tables, even the floor.  I still have some caked paint on my hands. 

“Uh, actually, I was asked to come here.”  He sits at the kitchen table, sets a clear bottle on top, and presents two glasses from his jacket pocket.  It is nearing the end of fall.  It is cold.  Winter is coming.  “By your father,” he says.  

The Baker.  I remember the last time I saw him.  I don’t work much anymore.  I just pay my parents a portion of my monthly salary for being a victor anyway.  I keep telling them to close the stupid place, but they don’t want to.  It is their livelihood.  They won’t know what to do with themselves otherwise.  I remember the last time I spoke to the Baker.  “What are you doing, Peeta?”  He asked me.  I made a bunch of bread, the old family recipe.  I left the money on the table for about a hundred loaves.  I usually toss them on people’s doorstep in the Seam.  I feel obligated to do so.  He is worried about me.  I don’t talk to him anymore, or my mother.  I just smile, work a little around the shop and leave to go painting, run around the District, or just stare blankly at the wall of my mansion.

“He gave me this, too,” he lays a loaf of our traditional family bread on the table.  The kind with the spices and nuts.  The kind that reminds me of… her.  After a moment of silence shared over a glass of that horrifying liquid Haymitch drinks like water, I have a feeling my father didn’t ask him to see me to get hammered with. 

“Why are you here?”  I ask him, pouring a second cup of the vile stuff for the both of us.  Honestly, I don’t appreciate Haymitch’s presence.  I avoid him actively. 

“He says you’ve changed.”  I stare at the bread, not taking my eye off of it.  “You’re different now, and I agree.  Now,” Haymitch stands to his feet, glass in hand, pacing the kitchen.  “I’m not saying that I am attracted to you, but you’re not the same… you.”  He gets out. 

“I don’t know, Haymitch.  I guess I’ve just been coping.” 

“With what?”  He asks like there is nothing I should be upset about. 

“With what?  With being lied to, that’s what!”  I stand to my feet, boiling over with rage.  “With being in a position of vulnerability and taken advantage of, that’s what!”  Full on yelling, now.  “I poured my heart out to her, man!  Everything I said, every single thing I said in that cave, Haymitch!”  I feel the tears running.  “That was all true.  I thought about Katniss every day since Effie called my name.  I took a vow to my father that I would not change!  I was prepared to die for her, Haymitch!  You took part in it!  You betrayed me!”  My yelling has dropped to a mild shout.  “And the worst part about that is, I did.  I did change.  I didn’t in the way I thought I would, no.  I felt what it was like to be manipulated the way I thought I was manipulating everyone else.  That is what the Games does.  It strips your person from your instinct, exposing how much of an animal we all are.  That is what it did to me.”  Tears are forming in my eyes.  “You know what Cato said to me, right after he stabbed my leg?”  Haymitch shakes his head.  “He said that just as I betrayed him, I would be betrayed and be oblivious to it.”  He nods understanding.  “He also told me that the Hunger Games are just a metaphor for Panem.  He told me about the moment the Careers betray each other, he called that Phase Three.  He says Panem has a Phase Three, too.  Just like in the Games, the slightest bit of betrayal, the slightest bit of uprising, like what Katniss and I did with the berries that will cause Panem to crumble.”  I flinch a little at the thought.  “I just want you to know that my part in that is your fault.  The blame is on you, Haymitch.”  I pickle my finger at him the way he did to me on the train.  “If there is an uprising because of what I did, it’s on you.”  I take another drink.  “Cato is a real prophet.” 

Haymitch finishes that cup, and turns back to the bottle, emptying it in the process.  “So, is that why you run shirtless around the mercantile district?  Is that why you beat a tree in your spare time?” 

He is talking about my new forms of exercise.  I love to run.  Ever since I felt what it was like to be disabled, I didn’t want that anymore.  I run every day, and every day, I practice my waning knowledge about martial arts I learned during the training week.  “Is that why you drink like a fish in your spare time?”  I counter.  “Tell me, is it Maysilee Donner that keeps you drunk?”

He stands to his feet, furious, about to attack, then I do the same.

He just shrugs.  “Fair enough.”  He sets down the bottle, and finishes the final glass.  “Oh, and by the way,” Haymitch has his hands on his forehead.  “I may have promised your father that I would get you out of the house.” 

“Really, Haymitch?  We are not friends!  We will never be friends after what you and Katniss did to me!  That’s it!  Get out!”  He backs up slowly.  I advance on him.  He holds out his hands defensively. 

“Now, kid, just go easy on me.  If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t want to do this.  I told your father ‘no’ three times, and gave in because I needed a drink.  Just cooperate, and it will be over before you know it.”  He waves me over to the front door.  “Come with me to the Hob. I need something to drink.” 

What the hell.  It doesn’t matter anyway.  I am wearing some brown pants and a white t-shirt.  I don’t bother to put on a jacket because the cold doesn’t bother me.  I put on some boots, stare longingly at my canvases, wishing I could opt out and just paint a little.  Haymitch takes my arm, leading me outside.

“This way, it’s not far,” Haymitch says. 

“It better not be.”  I counter.  In reality, I know where the Hob is.  I have been there a number of times.  I just don’t go often.

Turning to my right, I see Katniss’ home.  I wave to her mother who is doing laundry outside.  She waves back, still grateful for everything I have done in the arena.  Snow is beginning to fall.  Katniss doesn’t live there, but her family does.  I run into Prim, her little sister, often.  She is very sweet, and I do like her company.  Usually she just asks me something like, “Why are you always running?  Don’t you get tired?”  She has since introduced me to her cat, Buttercup.  Katniss was right, she loves animals.  I was once sitting outside on the front stairs to my mansion, weeping like an idiot in the middle of the night.  Low and behold, Prim shows up to comfort me. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.  It is the middle of the night, cold, not safe. 

“I know,” she says to me.  “Katniss does the same thing sometimes.”  She stares at me, and I wipe away some of the tears.  “Can I join you?”  I just nod. 

She sits next to me, staring up at the stars.  “How have you been, Prim?”  I ask, trying to talk. 

“Oh, I have been better.  I guess with the wintertime coming, I get nervous.  How are you, Peeta?”  She stares at me.  Her blonde hair is like mine.  If I had a sister, she would probably look like Prim. 

“I am fantastic,” I joke.  She laughs.  She gets my humor. 

“I know it has been hard, Peeta.  It’s been hard on all of us.”

“Yea, well have you had your heart ripped out before?”  I snap.  She is calm.  She probably hears the same tone often from Katniss. 

“No, I haven’t.  Not like what my sister did to you.”  She rubs my back with her left hand.  “Sometimes,” she says, “you have to deal with the hard stuff before it can get better.  Sometimes your lot in life only seems bad, but will lead you to a state of happiness that you never imagined possible.”  I stop crying a moment. 

“Funny, the Baker used to tell me the same thing a long time ago.”  She smiles and continues staring at the stars.  That encounter with Prim was the last encounter I had with a human being before Haymitch knocked on my door this morning.  That was, oh, a week ago?

We escape the Victor’s Village and make it to the Hob. 

“What did I tell you?  Here we are.”  This horrible disgusting place is just one giant black market that everyone hangs out at.  Even Katniss sometimes.  If I’m lucky, I won’t have to see her. 

Just inside is this makeshift restaurant that is mostly supplied by Katniss and Gale.  They provide most of the meat here.  Haymitch and I walk to the counter.  He orders two more bottles of the stuff, and I figure what is the harm of a small bottle of spirits? 

I buy my share of the liquid, and that is that.  “See?  What did I tell you?  It would be over before you know it.”  Only it wasn’t.  I wish I didn’t have to leave my home.  I wish I could have just stayed there.  Here I am, standing in the Hob with no jacket.

But who, of all people, just walked into the Hob?  Katniss Everdeen, and Gale Hawthorn.  She sports her mockingjay pin like a champion.  I make eye contact with them both.  Katniss smiles lightly at both of us, and Gale shakes my hands. 

“Peeta,” he says to me.  “How’ve you been?”  He asks in his deep voice. 

“Well, how about yourself?”  The small talk is refreshing at least. 

“Bit cold for my taste.”  He replies. 

“Yea, where’s your jacket?”  Katniss questions me as she sits at a nearby table.  She avoids eye contact with me at all cost.

“I don’t need one,” is all I say as I try to escape this awkward situation.  Haymitch is already gone.  People are not his thing.  I follow his example, trying to leave, go back home and paint some more.

I do feel bad for snapping at Katniss like that.  I can’t shake the feelings for her, though.  She will always be the girl with the braids to me. 

I just barely step over the threshold of the Hob when Katniss interrupts me.

“Peeta!”  She calls to me.  She grabs my shoulder, pulling me to face her.  I turn, and am taken aback by her grey eyes.  “Peeta, just…” she pauses a moment.  “Why?”  She asks.  I don’t know what she is referring to.  Is she referring to us?  Why the last time I saw her was the day we got back to District Twelve?  Why I ran away from her as soon as I could that night, never speaking to her again?  Why?  I don’t know why.  It must have something to do with her betrayal, that’s why. 

“What?” 

“Why…” She pauses, looking around.  I really don’t have time for this.  “Why do you run so much?  Around the District, I mean?  You do that every day at exactly the same time.  Fast too, why do you do that?”  I don’t know exactly how to answer that.  I don’t appreciate that she watches me.  We are standing just outside the Hob, I am being distracted by the plethora of people entering and exiting the building.  Just as I am about to answer, I hear the high pitched “Hey!” of a little girl.  She was nine maybe.  I don’t know.  I turn around, Katniss is already surveying the scene. 

A Peacekeeper took bread from a small little girl.  Darius, I recognize him.  The little girl has never known what a full stomach feels like I suspect, and the Peacekeeper, he is as tall as me, bright red hair and freckles.  He takes a bite of the child’s bread, and throws it in the mud.  The girl sits, traumatized.  I bet that piece of bread was all she could think about.  I bet it would have been the only thing she ate all day.  I can only imagine what that feels like.  No one is here to help her.  A few people look on in disgust and disproval, but no one dares offend a Peacekeeper.  Their white armor, their tall well fed bodies, they are gods practically. 

I look at Katniss, and she just has a blank stare on her face.  She doesn’t do anything though.  Our eyes meet, and she guesses what I am about to do.  “Peeta, don’t.”  She says.  I hand her the bottle of spirits in my hand, and turn around facing the Peacekeeper.

I remember the martial arts from the training center well.  I practice it every day on a tree.  I practice it so much that the bark has been stripped away.  I don’t even use gloves.  I take each step towards the Peacekeeper in a slow motion that can only come as the result of adrenaline.  I imagine beating this foolish boy, probably not too much older than me, to death.  I imagine crushing his skull with my foot, sending his body through the wall.  The anabolic steroids have not worn off.  I feel the tension build in my body, in my arms, in my fists.  I feel my lips twitch in disgust and anger.  How dare he!

I grab the red headed Peacekeeper with both hands on his chest guard, and throw him against the wall.  He reaches for his pistol to defend himself, and a crowd of spectators’ forms, cheering and chanting.  He pulls out the gun, but I disarm him, throwing the weapon in the mud. 

“You would take the bread from a little girl?”  I ask him as I have my hand on his throat, defenseless.  He shakes his head in fright.  He wheezes and gasps for breath.  His lips turn purple, and I can begin to feel the fiendish nature in my body take over.  That poor girl.  How dare he?  Many more Peacekeepers with full gear and helmets rush to the scene.  I can see Katniss standing there shocked as to what is happening. 

“Get your hands off him!”  I hear a Peacekeeper yell.  His weapon pointed at me.  I can see others form a semi-circle around me.  All because I have their comrade by the throat.

“I am a Victor!”  I scream to them.  “You can’t touch me!”  A bluff, but they believe it.  I have never heard of a Victor being arrested for anything before. 

I throw the Peacekeeper in the mud like a rag doll.  He bounces at least twice, face in the mud, embarrassed.  He stands back up, and advances two steps as if he wanted to fight me.  “What?”  I ask him as I advance closer to him.  I now realize that I am taller than him.  He is young.  Too young.  “More?”  I ask him, taunting him.  He takes his gun, and runs off, pushing the crowd away.  His white armor is brown from the mud, and his face blushes as dark red as his hair.

The Peacekeepers back away. Katniss still stares on at me, and even Gale does at this point, having heard the commotion from inside.  An expression of shock and fear is on her face.  I could read her face like a book.  “This is what I made you?” it says.  “This is what you have become?”  I don’t hear those words, but I see it on her face. 

The little girl still sits there.  She doesn’t even have clothes that fit her properly.  I walk calmly over to her, and the crowd dissolves.  She looks frightened, but she dare not move.  I kneel to her level.  “Hello, there,” I say to her in a soft tone.  Katniss still stands there, but Gale has since walked away, shaking his head.  “Do you know who I am?”  She has two braids instead of one.  Her skin is a light olive, and her eyes a bright green.  She smiles up at me, nonverbally thanking me for saving her from the corrupt Peacekeeper.

She thinks about the question for a moment, then blurts out, “You’re the man!  You’re the man I need to thank for the applesauce!”  She yells and points.  I laugh lightly.  Katniss is still watching this.  I sit down next to her in the dirt, cross my legs, exposing the metal of my left leg.

What the girl is talking about is the extra food the Capitol drops in the District as a reward for winning.  I think the only thing that they actually do drop is applesauce, sugar, and if they’re lucky, few pieces of chocolate.  “Well, you’re very welcome.  Tell me, what is your name?” 

“Katherine!”  She blurts out immediately. 

“Well, Katherine, are you from the Seam?”  I ask her. 

“Yes.”  She answers. 

“Do you have parents?” 

“Yes.  I have a mom, but no dad.  He has been on a long trip since last August.  He is exploring the tunnels that lead to the center of the earth.  That is why he hasn’t come out of the mines in a very long time.”  The little girl looks at the floor, and I can’t help but almost burst into tears.  I fight them hard, rubbing my hand over my mouth, looking away.  I don’t know if Katniss can hear, but she is watching the both of us.  The girl is younger than nine, I think.  Maybe seven or eight now that I have gotten closer to her.

“Have you eaten today?”  I ask her, still on her level, sitting beside her.  Katniss takes a step forward, listening to our conversation now. 

“Nope!  Not since half twelve yesterday.”  It is three o’clock now. 

“Well tell you what, Katherine, do you trust me?”  I ask her. 

“Yes, why not?”  I smile.  She has no reason not to.  She is a child.  Completely vulnerable.

“Come on,” I stand and offer her my hand.  “I’m going to get you something to eat.” 

“Really?  Thanks, mister!  What is it?” 

“I’m thinking beef stew, how does that sound?” 

“I never had that before,” the girl says.  We walk hand in hand into the Hob, and Katniss follows closely behind me.  Watching every step of the way. 

I pick up the little girl, and set her on the table.  The woman behind the counter doesn’t appreciate it much until she sees who I am.  I already slap a coin on the table in payment that goes well beyond the price of three bowls of stew.  “Beef stew, ma’am, oh,” I lean in on the table, as does the woman.  “It’s real beef, right?”  I whisper. 

She says to me, “Honey, after it’s been boiled down long enough, it’s all beef.”  I just nod to her, and she presents a steaming bowl and a small piece of bread for the little girl.  Katniss is sitting in the middle of the room, legs crossed, looking at me and the girl, smiling slightly. 

“All this for me?” 

“That’s for you,” I say to her.  The woman gives her a spoon too, and she begins shoveling in the stew.  “Slow down now,” I say to the girl.  “That’s some rich stew there.  Don’t want to get sick.” 

“Yes sir,” she says.  “Hey, mister,” my attention is called from staring at the grain of the table to the little girl. 

“Yes, Katherine?” 

“Do you still work in that baker shop?”  She asks mid bite. 

“Yes, sometimes.  Do you want a job, darling?”  Her eyes widen, and nearly forgets about the stew for a moment. 

“Really?  A job?  For me?  But I’m just a little girl from the Seam.” 

I nod to her with a smile on my face.  “I know, Katherine.  I know.  Sometimes little girls from the Seam are destined to do great things.” 

“Like being a baker?”  She blurts out. 

“Yes,” I laugh, “like being a baker.” 

Just that moment, I see something from Katniss across the room.  Was it a tear?  Was it something else?  She stands up and leaves abruptly as if there was an emergency.  She was gone before I could blink. 

In the end, you cannot escape change, I guess.  It is a part of life.  The challenge is that you can’t let it change _YOU._   I can’t tell you how many times the Baker told me about Katniss’ mother.  I can’t tell you how many times I told the Baker about the girl with the braids.  What I have come to understand now about the Baker is that he is happy without her.  He is happy he didn’t end up with the woman of his dreams.  That’s okay.  The circumstances in his life led him to where he is today.  I respect that.  “I wouldn’t change it for the world,” he says.  And he is right.  No matter how difficult it is for me, no matter what I have been through, I have to understand that there is something greater out there.  There is some bigger goal for me.  There are still chances to do good and be better.  The events of my life, the Hunger Games, all of that was just a means to an end.  And to tell you the truth, I am happy I went through what I did. 

After Cato slashed my leg, I thought I would die.  I hid myself in the cleft of the rock for days.  I was in pain, I was abandoned, I was upset, but one morning, I saw the sun rise.  It was the most beautiful sunrise I ever saw in my life.  The orange, that particular shade is my favorite color.  I wondered what it was that would come along today.  What new challenge awaited me at that moment?  What new surprise would be waiting for me each and every day? 

Sometimes I wish I was back in the arena.  I paint images of the frightening things I have seen, the mutts, Cato, what have you.  But every time I shut my eyes, before I fall to sleep, I see her there.  I see Katniss.  I am back in that cave.  The memories of those happy moments in that cave are worth a hundred Hunger Games.  I wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

Now, looking back at Katniss’ empty seat, and watching the little girl slurp her stew, I can’t think of a life I would rather have lived. 

**Author's Note:**

> My friend James wrote this entire work and asked me to post it here on AO3.
> 
> **Neither I nor the author of this work own The Hunger Games or any of the characters**


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